Vice City Nights
by Zacchariah
Summary: Vice City, as it rots in sin and decadence in the new Millennium, an ex-soldier, a hacker and a gun runner are strung together in order to carry out a life or death mission against the backdrop of bright lights and fast life. Please read and review, critique is highly appreciated.
1. David Barrett

The night air was bitterly cold, uncharacteristically so, this far South-West, even for December, but Barrett was unperturbed, as his training had taught him to be. Any normal person in the position which he found himself at the moment would have long ago been compromised under the stresses of it: the cold, the hunger, lack of sleep. He had been going continuously for about twenty-one hours and counting and he could see the end in sight. It did nothing to drive him to do his job any faster-there was no compromise for doing it right, because he knew that no matter what the job, _he only ever had one shot_.

From slung over his shoulder, he pulled the carbine rifle in front of him, and examined it carefully, pulling back the charging handle and giving a feel to the grip, not to mention the suppressor which stood at the end of the tip of the barrel. However, he replaced it behind him, sliding the strap over his chest, knowing that in the best of circumstances, the heavy duty shooter wouldn't be necessary. Though, it never hurt to have a back up. He made a feel for the sidearm that sat in his left-side hip holster: combat .45 fitted with suppressor and laser sight; his precision tool for keeping his work clean and quick. His grip was firm and his hand steady, even at the chill while in his damp skin suit. He checked his right wrist as the orange LED screen of his watch ran down not the time of day, but rather a running timer-at forty-four seconds and counting.

The mansion's grounds were illuminated as if it were midday, despite rounding off ten at night, as security patrolled, armed with their own heavy artillery; each man carried no less than an SMG, automatic pistol fitted with an extended magazine and the FIB's standard issue Kevlar vests. Not to mention the name "Merryweather" embroidered into each of their designer polo shirts and hot branded onto every one of their firearms.

As was his expertise, Barrett knew the one spot of the grounds which stood clear from prying eyes of patrolling private soldiers as well as the stadium-standard spotlights which sought to kept the owner of the mansion safe and trap all would be intruders in a sea of blinding lights and bullets. He checked his watch again-based on his planning, as the guard to his three o'clock would be heading around the side of the house, he had mere seconds to clear the few yards from the grounds to the pool deck before another guard would come around from his nine. Without even blinking, as he watched his point B, he readied himself and waited for his watch to vibrate, signalling the point where the guard would round the corner of the house.

_BZZZT._

On his mark, set and go, Barrett, shadow-like as he clutched his .45 with both hands, his left index ready on the slide, ran from his hiding place to the beautifully unsecured deck. He kept his whole body low in the few seconds it took for him to dash to the deck and slip to the back door of the seemingly impenetrable fortress. He zipped between the light spots and by the back door, slid the counterfeit keycard-which he was afforded by weeks of reconnaissance and undercover work-past the sensor, which clicked in an instant, allowing him to walk right in through the door.

Inside, as he lightly tread on the pristine, polished marble floor without a sound, he checked his watch again. The timer had restarted and now was running down from ninety seconds: how much time he calculated he would have before his presence would be picked up by someone or something. He had no time to mind alarm systems or C.C.T.V., his expertise was practical, so his M.O. meant working around it. They would eventually know he was there, but by time they would figure it out, it would already be too late. As he steadily approached his engagement point-the master bedroom at the top of the stairs-heavy, electronic bass which pounded against the ceilings and floors, shaking the bulletproof windows, grew louder. Shouts and screams of adulation came from behind the shut bedroom double-door as he crept up the stairs towards them. There was a party going on behind those doors and he was about to crash it.

He eased closer, his right hand inching to the gold-trimmed door handle, reading his trigger finger and lifting the silenced barrel...

... then... his plan jarred completely. The door swung backwards, opening up. The perpetrator was merely a wobbling, tripped, twenty-something blonde, who gazed at what stood before her: a build, six-foot man in head-to-toe all black, gripping a handgun and pointing it right at her face. She didn't know if to scream or to tell her host that he had company. Her mouth dropped open and as he did best in times like such, Barrett improvised. He grabbed the girl and spun her around, wrapping his arm around her neck and forcing her back into the room with him closely behind her-the poor thing was too busy tripping balls to know what the hell was going on anyway, so she could do little more than numbly mouth in panic.

Barrett pushed himself and her into the room of drugged up party-goers, who, for a brief moment, left his intrusion unnoticed. Three girls, two guys, all unfortunate stereotypes: young, stupid and killing themselves in hedonistic fits of their young stupidity, fueled by the blaring Flying Lotus on the bedroom's sound system and the mixture of sparkling white powder and cheap Boomshine. Barrett scanned the room, but the host wasn't among the five of them. He wasn't wrong, though, his plan wasn't wrong-_his target had to be there_.

Failing to miss a beat, he scanned the room again, all while waiting for the inevitable buzz at his wrist. He spotted it, the ajar bathroom door, the occupant most likely jaded to what became fearful gazes and open mouths at Barrett's presence in the room. Wrenching the girl along with him, he approached the bathroom door and then throwing her aside, to the floor, he kicked it open: in the bathroom, his head bowed down on the vanity's countertop, that sick snort coming from him, was the target. He waited to finish his rail, to spin around, staring down the barrel of Barrett's .45. However, unlike his guests, he was very much aware.

"H-holy fuck!" shouted Blake as he slipped and stumbled to the hard floor with a thud, and Barrett edged closer, pressing the barrel against Blake's temple as his guests watched in silent horror, gently shaken about by the astounding bass of the music. "L-listen man," he began pleasing, "I-I know why you're here... l-l-look, I didn't know who that kid was, man. I promise, if I knew, I-I wouldn't've shot 'im man. R-r-really!"

He waved his arms about as Barrett cocked the hammer; Blake grew more frantic.

"L-look, look, l-l-look!" he stumbled incessantly, "I-I can pay you, a lot. Double whatever you're getting n-now! I promise I-I'll leave. Ch-change my name, disappear, won't push or sh-shoot videos ever again, man. I'll be a ghost!"

Barrett tilted his head, almost contemplatingly. "This isn't personal, Blake; this has nothing to do with the kid. Besides, _I killed him myself this morning._" Almost.

Blake's eyes widened as he shudderingly turned his head towards Barrett, the barrel scraping against his forehead as he gazed into the ice-cold eyes of the killer standing over him.

"This? This is simply me cleaning up the mess that you and the kid made. This is me saving a very powerful man a lot of valuable time and money. This, Blake?"

_BZZZT!_

... the crash of the front door being battered down by zealous Merryweather footsoldiers echoed throughout the house as Barrett kept his gaze on Blake.

"This, is strictly business. Martin sends his regards."

_POP!_

Blood and grey matter splattered throughout the bathroom, as one of the dazed girls regains herself enough to let go a horrified scream. By that time, though, Barrett darted for the floor to ceiling windows at the opposite end of the room, just as Merryweather's heavies busted their way in through the rest of the door, pushing past the stoned kids who tried to flee the scene. The Merryweather soldiers raised their weapons, ready to riddle Barrett with bullets, but his plan, at this point, was infallible.

As he sprinted for the window, time slowed to a crawl and his reflexes accelerated. He checked the soldiers, then the window, then his gun, waiting...

_BZZZT!_

A thunderous bang shook the room as sparks shot from the windows. Plastic charges molded at the base of the window, camouflaged and gone largely unnoticed up until now, erupted, shattering the frame of the bulletproof glass, allowing enough give for Barrett to thrust his way through the window. From the second story window, he soared into the night air, the Vinewood sign coming into his line of sight in the split second he hovered over the phallically shaped pool which stood feet beneath him. He curled his body, dropping into it with a massive splash, as in the bedroom, the Merryweather footsoldiers gathered themselves following the explosion and rushed for the window. Staring at the rippling water, the group split, half standing at the window and the other half rushing downstairs and onto the deck, hoping to cut Barrett off at the pass. However, as the water settled, Blake still sitting on the bathroom floor, draining blood into the tub from the hole in his head, Barrett was nowhere to be seen.

Minutes later, Barrett approached his navy blue Karin Futo-which would be inevitably scrapped or chopped hours from then-stationed blocks away from the mansion compound. He had changed out of his skinsuit, attired in a pair of black jeans and a forest green t-shirt, a black travel bag in hand as he threw it into the backseat of the car. From the glovebox, he pulled a pair of binoculars and aimed it at the house, scanning for anyone who may have been looking out for him, as he could see two heavies carrying out a body bag through the backdoor, Blake most likely zipped up in it. Giving no expression, he slipped into the Futo, started it up and drove off into the Vinewood Hills.

As he cruised along Vinewood Boulevard, past the Oriental Theatre, he was startled by the sound of his phone chiming in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out and examined the number: it was local.

"Hello?" he apprehensively greeted, his eyes fixed straight ahead and his foot gradually pressing on the gas pedal,

"David Barrett." greeted the voice at the opposite end, "How has time treated a dog like yourself?"

"Who is this?" Barrett pressed on the throttle even more and the engine picked up as he checked the rear view mirror.

"Someone who thinks that you need to stop playing equaliser for the rich kids." The voice was gruff, but familier. Paternal to Barrett, even, "Someone who thinks that it's about time you do some worthwhile work again."

Barrett paused.

"Do you copy, _Dead Air_?" asked the voice.

Barrett's eyes widened and his foot hit the brakes, bringing him to a hard stop as he came up to a rapidly changing traffic light.

"Roth... C-Commander." Barrett called out,

"It really is just Roth now. I'm retired. Unlike you, getting yourself wet, while you play cleaner for the divas who can't keep themselves out of trouble."

"Where the Hell are you?" questioned Barrett.

"I'm at my ranch, David and more importantly, I want you to come and see me, I have something I need to talk to you about."

Barrett went silent, contemplating the number from which Roth was calling him, before adding: "Your ranch? Outside Vice City?"

"Affirmative. Can I count on seeing you soon, solider?"

Barrett paused, before confidently ending the call with "_Hooyah._"

_Click._

**Name:** David Barrett  
**Age:** 34  
**Location:** Los Santos, San Andreas.  
**Profession:** (Formerly) Spec Operator, Navy SEALs. (Currently) Black Operator/Assassin, Unaffiliated  
**Status:** Activated.


	2. Tristin Reed

She spun the pen between her slender fingers compulsively, tapping away at the keyboard with her free hand. The pale blue glow of the laptop screen bathed her face, causing the platinum hoop in her nose to glisten azure. She placed the pen between her teeth and then used both hands to attack the keyboard, tapping away at it viciously as the laptop sat on her knees.

"C'mon, baby. Give me something pretty." she uttered, muffled by the pen in her mouth. Her incessant typing stopped and she simply stared at the screen, waiting. She pulled the pen from her lips and began scribbling on a shred of toilet paper she had pulled from the roll next to her. A collection of digits and letters only she could understand and then went back to the keyboard. Her eyes darted to the clock in the corner of the screen, she knew her time was running short and it was making her incredibly uneasy-beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, which she dabbed at with her shirt, which she pulled up from her torso.

"C'mon... time's not on my side, baby."

She stared at the screen and kept still for another few seconds, before giving the keyboard a few last taps. Then...

"Yes!"

... she pumped her fists in the air as the figures on the screen told the story she was waiting to read: hundreds of thousands of virtual dollars flooding into a specified account. Her job was done. She pulled down the laptop screen, sat up from the toilet and flushed the scribbled piece of toilet paper. She stuffed her computer into her messenger bag and threw it over her shoulder before stepping out of the bathroom stall.

She took a moment to stop, check herself in the mirror and give herself a smile of satisfaction, however, her basking was short-lived as the sound of wailing sirens and troubled cries echoed throughout the Burger Shot outside of the very public restroom in which she stood. She knew they were coming for her.

"Shit." she looked around for an escape, crossing the sling of her bag over her body. The sight of an open window making for an easy way out was a salvation for her.

With a heavy bang, the restroom door was kicked open, nearly off of its hinges as three uniformed L.C.P.D. officers invaded the restroom, pistols in hand and aiming about the room.

"Liberty City P.D., we know you're in here Tristin!" said one of the officers, before forcing open each of the restroom stalls, one-by-one, as another headed back into the restaurant and the third approached the only window in the room.

"Clear!" called out the stall-checker.

"I see her, she's in the alley." Shouted the officer at the window—he pulled away from his position, before speaking into the radio clipped to his lapel, "All units, 10-32, suspect just hacked the Bank of Liberty network, has fled the Burger Shot in Star Junction on foot." He pushed back into the restaurant with the other two officers in two as they ran onto the streets of Algonquin. They headed for the alley which the window led into, but Tristin had most likely vanished into the crowd pounding the Star Junction pavement.

"We've lost sight of the suspect." said the officer into the radio, sucking his teeth in frustration, as the other two searched the alley from end to end. The three of them found their way onto Nickel street, scanning the masses for any sign of their target.

"There!" shouted an officer, pointing into the crowd as Tristin pushed her way past the hoards of pedestrians. The three officers resumed their on-foot pursuit, as she caught wind of them, breaking into as fast of a run as she could with her bag slung over her shoulder and the mesh of people surrounding her.

Tristin pulled from her pocket the disposable cell phone and hit number 2 on the speed dial. While panting into the mic and looking for an escape, the call was almost immediately answered.

"Hey, Baby! Tell me we're rollin' in it, pure alpha!"

"Oh, geez! B, shit!" exclaimed Tristin, as she darted into the subway.

"Woah, don't tell me we didn't get through."

"No-no-no-no, we're good, B. All clear." She ensured, "I bled it dry before the firewalls could kick back in, but they tracked me to the Burger Shot. I'm in the subway, but I've got three uniforms on my tail!"

"No breadcrumbs?"

"No, all clear, B. Dust in the wind, but if I don't get the fuck out of here, that won't mean shit!" she scrambled down the steps and over the turnstile, heading for the tracks, where approaching was the scheduled line.

"B, I'm catching the train, I'll call you when I'm clear!" and without further notice, she hung up and threw the phone onto the train tracks. She stopped on the platform, frantically hopping on the spot, twisting around to see her pursuers heading down the stairs. Before she could turn back around, the rush of wind signaling the arrival of the K-Line blew her hair about her face and shook her, almost causing her to fall onto the tracks.

The subways doors slid open and she slipped in among the commuters clamouring out. However, in quick pace, the blues had already passed the turnstiles and headed for the doors themselves. Two of them burrowed into the train, while the third stood on the outside, keeping an eye on the platform.

The two in the train, searched car-by-car, but there was no sign of her, they had lost her again, however, before they could realise, the train doors slid shut and the line began moving forward, trapping the two of them on the inside, while the officer on the platform could only watch. However, as the train vanished down the tunnel, his eyes drifted over to the opposite platform, where he could spot her darting up the stairs, having slipped in and out of the train car and heading back to the surface.

"Stop! L.C.P.D.! Stop!" commanded the officer as he jumped onto the tracks and crossed over onto the opposite platform, hot on her tail.

The chase went back to the surface, as Tristin found herself heading for Middle Park, having escaped the underground. Leaving the roadways and running through the foliage and along the paved pathways, she looked behind her for any sign of the last blue, but scanning her surroundings, she deduced that she had lost him.

Panting heavily and slumping onto the grass, she had to keep moving. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, but her moment of reprieve was interrupted, by the click of a cocking hammer and the sensation of cold metal pressing against her spine.

"Give me the bag and put your hands in the air." Demanded the officer, panting between each word.

Tristin relinquished, knowing that she couldn't run away now. She considered a last ditch effort which involved the snub-nosed pistol tucked into the waistband of her jeans, but that would've been more trouble that it was worth. The transaction was finished and she would rather go to prison as a cyber-thief than a cop killer.

She gently pulled at the bag strap, getting ready to hand it off, but a loud crack in the air caused her to jump.

"Aaaggghhh-uurrggh-aahhh!" groaned the officer as he tumbled to the ground behind her. She frantically spun on her knees to see him twitching beside her, his sidearm away from his grip. She reached for it, but a second click of a pistol dissuaded her.

"I've used up my non-lethal option on him." Coldly mentioned the unfamiliar figure, attired in a dark suit and sunglasses, aiming a pistol at her head, "Which means my only option will be to shoot you if you try anything. Get away from the gun."

She leaned back, but all the while reaching at her back. Her hand slid down to her hips and grabbed for the grip of her pistol, but before she could do anymore, she felt her arm get pinned against her back and her entire body being forced to the ground, face first—

"What the f-?!" she shouted as about two hundred pounds leaned on her one hundred and twenty pound-frame, a knee in her spine and her shoulder being wrenched, "Hey! Get the fuck off of me! Get… _off_!"

A black bag was pulled over her face and from then on, all she could tell was that her gun was ripped from her waist and her back from her shoulder. She felt a zip tie tighten around her ankles and her other arm forced behind her back as her wrists were zip tied as well.

"The fuck're you doing?!"

She could feel her entire body being lifted and carried as she thrashed as violently as her restraints would allow her to, yet it was fruitless. She could feel her body being stuffed into an enclosed space, automotive carpet rubbing against her bare arms and the heavy thud of a trunk lid slamming down, encasing her in shrouded panic. She felt the kick of an engine turn over and the gentle rumble of a car moving off as she shouted and profaned at the top of her lungs, but with all of her efforts falling on deaf ears.

As the black Oracle pulled out of Middle Park and onto the streets of Liberty City, its Vice City license plates gleamed in the evening sun, with the vanity number V1CVNC3.

**Name:** Tristin Reed

**Age:** 27

**Location:** Liberty City, Liberty

**Occupation:** Tattoo Artist/Hacker

**Status:** Activated


	3. Oscar Guzman

**Writer's Note:** I understand that in using Oscar, an actual GTA character, there may end up being some arising continuity issues (For example, his official age, which I have no idea of), stemming from the fact that the character is not very deeply explored during the game. As a result, as the story progresses, I will be establishing my own backstory for the character which is in no way representative of Rockstar's iteration of Oscar and his details. Thanks.

* * *

The desert heat was unforgiving as Oscar sat in his office, cooled only by the oscillating desk fan right in front of him. He wiped his brow as he clutched the C.V. radio in his hand, in the middle of a transmission.

"… d'you ever get the feeling that we might be understaffed?" ranted Trevor Philips from the other side of the transmission, "Me, you and an antique airplane."

Oscar chuckled, "That's called efficiency, Trevor."

"That's called _something_, man."

Oscar set down the radio, satisfied after the day's efforts, as from the control cabin, he could hear the plane taxi into the hanger, the vibrations from its engine rumbling his surroundings. After a few moments, he could hear Trevor starting up the engine of his Bodhi pick up and drive off, leaving Oscar, as usual, to his own devices in the office.

He leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet onto the desk, contemplating an evening of activities in the surrounding Senora Desert and could only shake his head with a smile.

"I wonder if it's worth takin' a trip to Los Santos tonight?" he asked himself, leaning to his side for the bottle of Logger that sat sweating right next to his pristine AP Pistol. "That chica Infernus at Pink Unicorn knows how to make my night."

Oscar gave himself a shrug before deciding on it: he'd drive down to L.S. and make it by sunset, spend the night and head back to Grapeseed the next afternoon. Grabbing his keys, his pistol and polishing off the rest of his Yankee piss water brew, he headed through the door of the office, but as he stepped out onto the dusty airfield, a sight from the distance troubled him.

"Mierda." He muttered to himself as three roaring Hexer cycles and a black Burrito sped in his direction; members of the Lost M.C. at the Helm, sawn-off shotguns and SMGs in hand. Oscar sprinted back into the cabin and throwing his chair aside, reached under the desk and pulled out a 12-guage pump shotgun and a box of grenades. Grabbing two of the grenades in his hand, he went back through the door, readying himself for his guests.

He eyed down the bikers, shotgun in his right hand and grenades in his left, playing a game of psychological chicken, watching as they sped closer and closer…

"C'mon, _pendejos_."

Oscar pulled the pin out of the first grenade with his thumb and underhand chucked it far ahead, jumping for cover behind the cabin, the van driver swerved out of the way, narrowly missing it, but, two of the bikers weren't as lucky, trying to manoeuvre themselves and ending up skidding and tumbling their bikes, sliding sideways right into…

KA-BOOSH!

A massive explosion created a crater in the airstrip as the third biker was blown off from the shock and the van tumbled onto its side. The back doors burst open and Lost members scattered out, armed to the teeth and ready to take the airfield over Oscar's dead body.

"C'mon brothers—let's show this wetback how we do it in this country!" shouted the jacket leading the charge. Bikers marched to the cabin and others into the hangar, but Oscar, ducked behind the cabin and gritting his teeth and shook his head.

"_You fuckers picked the wrong airfield to raid._"

He leapt from his cover and with a shout, opened fire.

BANG! CHI-CHK! BANG! CHI-CHK! BANG!

Oscar pumped and fired at breakneck pace, mowing down the oncoming bikers with buckshot after buckshot. One by one, he picked them off, scattering blood, bone and leather all over the desert. The hangar raiders spun around and began opening fire while another did the same from behind the overturned van. Oscar pulled the pin on the second grenade and lobbed it at the van and while the hangar raiders took cover, the biker crouched behind it, his head pressed against the sideways camshaft was unaware, until the little black globe dropped right in front of him and rolled right up to his knees…

"Oh, fu—"

KA-BOOSH!

The van went up in flames and shrapnel as Oscar reloaded his shotgun. The bikers by the hangar struggled to recompose themselves, grabbing for their weapons which flew from their hands in the explosion. Oscar, however, was on them before they could even take proper hold of the grips.

"Peekaboo, mother fucker."

BANG!

A shot right into the chest of a grounded biker, blasting his body all over the dirt, while Oscar prowled for the remaining two, taking refuge in and around the hangar. He peeked around the back, but there was no sign of anyone—

KLUNK!

Oscar felt the shock of a wooden plank smack him in the spine. He dropped his shotgun as he tumbled to the ground and the biker scrambled for it. Oscar flipped over and kicked the jacket in his knee, breaking it, causing him to drop to the ground, screaming in agony, but as Oscar tried to make a jump to his feet to grab at the shotgun, the biker, with an iron grip, grabbed at Oscar's ankle and tugged at him, keeping him from getting to a vertical base. Oscar struggled, booting the biker in the jaw, but with every kick, he kept getting pulled back even harder. Oscar was just a fingertip away from the grip of the gun, but he couldn't grab hold. He looked back and watched as the biker pulled a knife from his jacket, readying to plunge it right into his leg. Oscar, in a split second, checked what could've possibly defended him and saw the very same 2x4 that took him down, right beside him. He grabbed the wood and with as hard of a swing as he could, bashed the biker right in the temple, causing him to let go.

Oscar got to his feet and looked at the shotgun, but before grabbing for it, checked the biker one last time.

"Urgh!" with a heave, Oscar swung the plank down, crushing the biker's skull. He dropped the bloody 2x4 and picked up his 12-gauge, very aware that there was at least one left. Checking the outside of the hangar, Oscar crept in through the front, deducing that it was the only place left to hide. He kept as quiet as he could, scanning the darkened area, among its many crates and barrels of munitions and the like…

"Hiy-agh!" the last biker jumped from behind a stack of pallets and grabbed Oscar from behind, wrapping his arms around his throat, trying to snap his neck. Oscar backpedalled and drove him right into the wall, but he held tight, delivering two hard kidney hooks. A stunned Oscar spun, attempting to pistol whip him with the butt of the gun, but the biker grabbed it, thrust the barrel in Oscar's face, rocking him and smacked him with the butt himself. However, rather than finishing him off, the biker simply dropped the gun on the ground and peeled off his jacket, revealing his ripped, tattooed arms, complete with bulging biceps. Oscar looked at him, surprised, as he spat blood from his mouth and grabbed at his chin, but the biker beckoned, putting up his fists.

Oscar lunged in with a fist, landing it square on the biker's jaw, then another. Jab, cross, roll, body shot and then another body shot. The biker was rocked, but not out of it, he blocked another punch to the ribs and then head-butted Oscar right in the bridge of the nose, causing him to stumble.

The biker delivered a thrust kick to the gut and a wide hook to the face, grabbing Oscar by the collar and belt and tossing him into some crates with a crash. He reached in the pile for the gun runner and pulled him out, dumping him onto the ground as he sought to crawl. However, the towering biker approached and with a hard stomp, crushed Oscar's ankle.

"Ahhgh!" Oscar screamed in pain, as he tried to crawl.

"C'mon you spick asshole." He hocked and spat on Oscar, "I'ma make this nice and slow for you. For each one'f my boys you just offed, I'ma add five minutes to me skinnin' you alive."

Oscar laughed.

"You think this is a fuckin' joke, you wetback fuck?" hissed the biker, "You fucked with the wrong gang, motherfucker! The Lost M.C.; this is our country and this is our turf!"

Oscar chuckled again, face down in the dirt, "You know, you've got a lot of talk for a man with no balls."

"The fuck'd you just say?" the biker reached down and pulling at Oscar's shoulder, flipped him over, coming eye to eye with the barrel of the AP Pistol.

BUH-BUH-BUH-BUH-BLAM!

With half a dozen automatic shots, Oscar drilled lead right into the biker's crotch and he fell back, screaming and groaning as Oscar pulled himself up and limped over to his shotgun, replacing his AP pistol in the front of his waistband. Grabbing the shotgun from the ground, he pumped it and aimed at the biker, rolling on the floor.

"Ungh-gah!" groaned the biker, "I-I-I'm sorry, man. W-we was just… j-just… it wasn't nothin' personal man."

"You, my stupid amigo," gloated Oscar, "picked the wrong man in this country to rob. You picked the absolutely worst man to try and rip off. Now, it'll be your balls and your head." He took aim at the biker's dome.

"I-I know man. We shouldn't have messed with Trevor. H-he just… he fucked us up, good man. Business… b-business has been in the shit since he wrecked the trailer park… w-we just needed to stake our claim, man… it was nothing against you!"

He grovelled as much as he could, but Oscar rested his finger on the trigger.

"Fuck Trevor, _puto_. The last person you want to fuck with is me."

BANG!

Blood and brain splattered all over the hanger and all over Oscar's boots, as he hobbled out onto the airstrip, amid the licking flames, smoke and mess of biker corpses.

"How the fuck'm I gonna explain this shit to 'im?" He looked around, scratching his head, "And how'm I gonna clean this up?"

He further mulled over his question, but his reflection was interrupted by the rumble of another engine speeding towards him. He checked the opposite end of the airstrip, where a black Ubermacht Oracle sped towards him, kicking up dust in its V8 wake.

"The fuck? More?!"

He lifted his shotgun, taking aim and the sedan skidded to a halt in the dust. Oscar stared down the driver through his blacked out windshield, shotgun at the ready, before slightly lowering it.

"You assholes don't look like you came with these assholes." He shouted to the driver, "Who the hell are you?"

He got no answer and no one emerged from the car. However, then—

A bang and Oscar could feel the surge of fifty thousand volts rush through his muscles, bones and nerves. Shuddering and groaning he dropped to his knees and then the ground as the stream of electricity was continuous and excruciating. Finally, someone emerged from the driver's side of the car as well as the passenger's side, both attired in dark suits, complete with sunglasses. As Oscar looked on, paralyzed by the literal shock, his surroundings suddenly went dark as a black bag was pulled over his head and his wrists and ankles were zip tied, binding him, in addition to the pain of his already demolished ankle.

The suits lifted Oscar, unable to resist and stuffed him into the trunk of the Oracle, slamming it shut. The driver, before slipping back into the car, pressed his earpiece and spoke into the microphone in his jacket cuff.

"Bravo, this is Delta. Package has been collected; en route to the airport for handoff—ETA, two hours. Over."

"Roger that Delta." Replied the voice on the other end, "Alpha reports a successful collection as well, so you should be getting your package in around the same time as them. That'll make for quick processing. Over."

"Sitrep on Omega? Over." asked the driver, slipping back into the car and shutting the door, ready to pull off.

"Negative. Omega was eighty-sixed—Big Daddy brought the package in himself. Over."

The driver raised his eyebrows, "I guess that tranquiliser went to waste. I still don't see why we couldn't have tazed him like the other two. What is he, a rhino?"

The voice at the other end laughed, "Probably more dangerous than a rhino. I've seen the guy in action, tazers don't drop him. Shit, bullets don't even drop him, he's like a machine."

The driver pulled out of the airfield, heading for Los Santos International, "So is it true?" he asked, being uncharacteristically inquisitive, "Is it really _Dead Air_? I thought he was a myth."

"Man's no myth." Ensured the voice, gravely serious, "More like a monster. Dude took down an entire convoy on his own back in Azerbaijan. Massacred 'em."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Well, deliver the package as planned, Bravo and maybe we'll get a chance to meet 'im on the right side of the line. See him face to face. Over."

"Not too sure I want to now. Over and out."

**Name:** Oscar Guzman

**Age:** 31

**Location:** Blaine County, San Andreas

**Occupation:** Arms Trafficker

**Status:** Activated


	4. Incentives

The lush, green plains of the Roth Ranch stood in stark contrast to the looming skyline of Vice City just over the hill. The sun glowed warm orange as it began to settle onto the horizon, visible just off Vice Beach. Rolling down his driver's window David pulled up to the large iron gates of the Ranch, a security booth situated right before it where there sat a security officer in an unsettlingly familiar uniform.

"G'd evening, sir." Greeted the officer, the Merryweather logo on the breast of his polo shirt and the .45 in his hip holster catching David's eyes, "I must advise you that this is a private property and trespassing is strictly prohibited."

David nodded, leaning through the window, peering over his gunmetal aviators "I'm here to meet Commander Roth."

The Merryweather goon looked down for a moment, then back up, "I'm sorry sir, Mister Roth has no scheduled appointments this evening. Now, please turn your vehicle around and exit the premises, or I will have to forcefully eject you." He pointed towards the way from which David came, but it was met by no physical reaction.

"Could you page him for me, please?"

The goon took a moment, tightening his jaw before unclipping a radio from his waist; "Home Base, this is the Dog House. I have a gentleman here, claims he's an invited guest of the Commander, over." He stood there, eyeing down David, waiting for a response, his holstered sidearm at the back of his mind, ever ready to pull a trigger in true Merryweather fashion.

Static.

"Uhm… I need a name and a plate number to verify, over." Instructed the voice on the other end.

"Sir, your name?"

"David Barrett."

The officer checked the plates of David's Cheval Fugitive and went back to the radio.

"Plates are Los Santos; delta-three-four-delta-four-one-Romeo. Name is Barrett, David… over." He never took his eyes off of David, who, seemingly, had let his attention wander about his surroundings, his sunglasses guarding his eyes.

There was no response from the radio. The officer let a smug smirk fall on his face, but the crackle of static to follow led to:

"Attention Dog House, this is Home Base—let him through and tag his vehicle with level one access."

The guard's eyes widened in surprise, but David remained unphased, he simply held out his hand expectantly.

"If you will." He beckoned.

The guard reached beneath the window of his hut and pulled out a small, black, plastic clip, dropping it in David's hand. It meant that David could have free reign, in and out of the property at will, something usually only reserved for the Commander himself. He gave the guard a nod and the gate opened on a whim, the sensors picking up the access tag. He pulled in and made his way up the drive, the steady, throaty rumble of his Fugitive preceding his entrance.

David pulled up to the ranch house, parking beside two other vehicles: one, a black, canvas roofed Canis Mesa, fitted with over-sized off-road tyres and bearing Merryweather decals on the doors; the other was a racing green Ocelot F620, which caused David to smile when he saw it, recalling memories of Roth telling him: "When I retire, the first thing I'm going to do it buy an Ocelot and drive it cross-country with Abby." Abby, being his mistress at the time—who, as far as David could recall, had died just a few months ago in a traffic accident.

"I never did get to drive it cross-country with her." Mentioned a familiar, guttural baritone that caused David to turn around from admiring the pristine vehicle, one that belonged to his former Commander, mentor and friend, Marcus Roth—"Her husband was getting pretty greedy at the time, and honestly, I felt like I had outgrown her anyway." He continued, walking up to David, resting his fingers on the body of the vehicle and running them along its curves, "It's a shame, the poor bastard went missing a few months later; took a trip in a sub, something he did as part of his job, ended up falling victim to a faulty air lock." He shrugged.

"Are you going to really bore me to death with your old man ramblings? Now?" asked David, removing his sunglasses, much to the Commander's amusement.

"You always were an impatient little shit." He held out his arms, "It's been too long, son." David and Roth shared a quick hug with a mutual pat on the back before the senior Roth beckoned for David to join him inside his lavish home which sat atop the hill overlooking Vice City.

* * *

Tristin could feel cold metal pressing against the back of her thighs, chilling through her tattered jeans, as her bound wrists and ankles began to chafe from the zip ties. She was still blinded by the black sack over her head, but in her efforts and screams had grown tired and hoarse. Suddenly, she felt the bag being pulled from over her head and in that moment, came face to face with another young woman. She was seated across from Tristin at the opposite end of an aluminium table, her hair perfectly coifed, her make up flawless down to the ideal shade of lip gloss which gave her an alluring pout of her lips, yet kept her professional and a light smoke to her eye shadow accenting her eyes behind designer Didier Sachs glasses.

Tristin examined the cold room, blocks constructed from cinderblock and the floor of cement and cheap carpet. Behind the young professional woman was a two way mirror, behind which, Tristin could only imagine who was there.

"I'm going to guess." Began Tristin, still struggling with her restraints, "That despite what I'm seeing, this is not a police interrogation room."

"And what gives you that idea, Miss Reed?" questioned the young woman.

"Well, I think, more than anything else, the fact that I was bound and gagged like a prisoner of war. Which, last I checked, wasn't standard L.C.P.D. protocol." Tristin leaned back in the cheap steel chair, giving an air of confidence as best as she could.

"Very astute of you, Miss Reed… however…" the woman reached by her knees, beneath the table and brought up a leather briefcase, "Who's to say that we're L.C.P.D.? Have you dismissed the I.A.A., the F.I.B., or maybe—"

"Where the fuck am I, you uppity bitch?!" shouted Tristin, rocking forward in her chair. A click in the back of the room followed her outburst, causing her to twist her head as far behind her as she could, to notice a towering wall of meat, wearing a baby blue polo shirt, bearing the Merryweather logo and tightly gripping his MP5 sub-machine gun in his hands.

Tristin turned back around as the woman snapped open the briefcase and pulled from it a manila folder. She set it in front of Tristin and flipped it open, revealing a few leafs of paper, all printed with lines upon lines of code. Tristin scanned the sheets, looked at the woman, then the paper again, mouthing the words:

"Bullshit."

She looked up at the woman, mouth hanging, "You're bullshitting me, how the hell…"

"Did we manage to figure out your algorithm? The very same one you used to hack into The Bank of Liberty before we intercepted you?"

"Kidnapped me."

"Details, Miss Reed. You're not the only one who knows how to break into someone else's private system. I'll admit, yours was rather difficult and not to mention the amount of trouble we had to go to in order to recover your algorithm. That's quite a machine you had—complete with an auto-deleting program, dumping the hard drive at timed intervals. Clever." The woman nodded as she spoke, apparently truly admiring Tristin's work, "However, it hadn't quite got rid of everything and we got enough, our team was of course able to fill in the blanks, but even they were astounded at how you could come up with the code from scratch. They had never seen anything like it."

Tristin did not take to the woman's gushing, but she continued, while pulling another item from the briefcase and dropping it on top of the file, a thumb drive, "It's a shame that they had to dismantle and destroy it. I imagine it was for everyone's betterment, though. Who knows what else could be on there… how it could possibly _ruin_ someone else's livelihood."

"The hell is this?" questioned Tristin, eyeing the drive.

"Oh, just the few little photos you had on the laptop. I'm guessing those were recent, since they were still there." She rose from her seat, and began pacing about the room, her stylish red heels catching Tristin's eye in the grey room.

"Is that a cousin of yours, Miss Reed, in the military uniform? Or maybe your brother?"

Tristin held her breath. The woman smiled.

"You know, it would be a shame if he was discharged dishonourably and even arrested because he aided you in your crimes."

"He didn't do anything!" barked Tristin, "He has nothing to do with what I've been doing, he's innocent, he doesn't know that I do this! He thinks I just do tattoos for a living!"

"And he never thought to ask how you were able to afford your middle park loft? Or maybe the new Sentinel you upgrade to every nine months? I guess he just doesn't see you that much."

"Tell me what the fuck you want!" Tristin could feel tears welling in her eyes. The woman eased towards her, daintily taking a seat on the table in front of her, crossing her slender legs and resting her hand on Tristin's shoulder.

"What _my employer_ wants, Miss Reed, is your cooperative assistance. We require your expertise for a very important job we have been planning."

"You've got your own hackers on staff." She shuddered as she spoke, fighting back the urge to cry out of fear and anger, "Why the fuck d'you need me?"

"You, Miss Reed, are a special breed of black hat. Your skill, as far as we have seen—and believe me, we've checked as far as anyone could—is unsurpassed. You are the standard for hackers of this generation and this is not just my opinion, it's what our entire organisation has realised." She uncrossed her legs and crossed them over in the opposite direction, "We have men and women on staff who are striving to be _just like you_, Miss Reed." The young woman then began caressing Tristin's shoulder and carried her touch, up to her neck and face, cradling Tristin's chin with her manicured finger. "And I can see why."

"So… you're going to blackmail me until I finish doing what your boss wants me to."

"You are, Miss Reed." She gently leaned in.

"And… I'm guessing until I finish what you want me for, as well."

A devilish smile, "There's no need for me to extort you for anything, _Tristin_." she slipped off of the table, adjusting her skirt before walking away and to the mirror, "I think you'll find that I can be quite persuasive all on my own." She then gave a waving, two-fingered signal to whoever stood on the other side of the mirror, before finally asking; "So, Miss Reed… can we count on your cooperation?"

Tristin looked back once more as the soldier stomped towards her and from sheath strapped to his thigh, pulled a seven-inch hunting knife.

"Yeah… yeah, I'll cooperate."

"Good."

The Merryweather solider cut Tristin's wrist restraints behind her back and bent down, cutting the ones around her ankles as well—she rubbed her bruised, red wrists, but barely had enough time to savour her mobility as the heavy iron door to the room swung open and from it emerged an aged gentleman. His silver mane was perfectly combed and parted and his face was clean shaven, all but a full, jet black moustache all while attired in a crisp, cream suit, black shirt and black Perseus loafers.

"Miss Tristin Reed…" introduced the woman, as she gazed at the gentleman in girlish awe, "… meet your new employer: Commander Marcus Roth."


	5. Three Degrees of Separation

"So… why did you call me?"

David stared through the double French doors of Roth's den which let out to the acres of lush green landscape that comprised his ranch. The room was a classic example of rustic, golden age luxury; oak bookcases packed with neatly arrange, leather-bound reads; the aroma of a freshly burning cigar and leather polish; rich burgundy carpet beneath David's feet and the clink of a crystal scotch glass being filled with ice from the antique, crystal ice bucket.

"What d'you drink, Dave?" asked Roth, examining a bottle of aged brown rum.

"I don't." dismissed David, turning around to face his former Commander.

"Well, I recommend a nice Irish whiskey then." He didn't take his eyes off of the bottle, setting it back down on the upper shelf of the wet bar and eyeing the selection, a bevy of fine spirits and liqueurs, each of them with their seals broken, proving that he had sampled all of them.

David looked at him, silent, well aware that his question was being ignored. "D'you have any cognac?"

Roth laughed, as he fingered the bottles, "Hah! Of course I do." He pulled a curvaceously shaped bottle, still with most of the clear golden spirit left; "Reminiscing in the days spent in France?" he turned to face David again, dumping the ice in the scotch glass and replacing them beneath the bar, only to pull out two rounded brandy glasses, pouring a shot into each; "On the rocks, or straight up?"

"No ice—I'd like to be able to taste it after two minutes."

Another laugh from Roth, as he glided from behind the bar and handed David one of the bulbs he carefully cupped in his hands. He stopped and stepped back, lifted his own glass into the air and toasted; "To the old days—may they forever stay behind us and not keep us from loving every minute that we have right now."

The two clinked their glasses and Roth immediately downed his. "I know that's meant to be savoured…" He excused, "… but ever since those three days spent in Russia with those Cossack boys, I treat everything like a shot; can't help it." And another throaty laugh.

David grinned, perhaps in fond remembrance, but quickly reiterated his first question; "Why am I here, Marc? I know that it wasn't to reminisce."

Roth's smile stood in place, before taking a step back and grabbing the bottle that still sat on the bar's counter top, pouring himself another glass and downing it again.

"I know that because I remember what happened the last time around." Continued David, "And I remember your words… to all of us. 'We can never come into contact again—that way, we can deny if ever we have to."

"If you won't have your drink, I will happily, son." Ensured Roth, cool smile unnervingly intact.

David took a begrudging sip.

Roth looked down at the ruby-hued carpet; "You know, Dave, I didn't really mean you when I said that. Now the others, they were limp-dicked little shits. You poke them too hard and they're crying and pleading for mercy. They'd be the first ones to talk and that would end up putting everyone in a hole. That would put _us_ in a hole, Davey." He gestured by pointing back and forth between himself and David, only just peering up out of the corner of his eye, "You, though… I knew you; a pair o' balls on you bigger than fuckin' mangoes. I know that because I' seen the shit you got put through."

"You put me through it, Mark." Added David, "That's how I ended up with you to begin with."

"Well, I had to make sure that I at least got pick of one of the guys I was entrusting my life and liberty to. After I saw the assholes they stuck me with I knew I had to have my pick of the kid who set the new standard in training. The one who had the best aim, could disarm the bomb the fastest, who's team got through the water faster than everyone else's _each and every time._"

"Despite that… _Commander_… I nee-"

"You were different Davey and that's why I wanted you there! That's why I knew I could trust you with everything you saw! They could skin you alive and you would keep y're fuckin' lips sealed! You know why? Because you were loyal, because you had integrity and you understood the gravity of our mission every—"

"That's not the fucking point, Roth!" David thrust his hands down, almost throwing the glass right against the floor before pausing for a moment, in an effort to compose himself. He stared Roth in the eyes and clenched his jaw, "W-why… why am I here?"

"_That_ is why you're here, son." Roth set his glass on the bar and left it there, before resting one hand on David's shoulder and taking the glass from him with the other, setting it aside, "Because I can trust you with what I need to ask of you… and I know that you will be able to do it. Because you, Davey… you are a God among men, when it comes to what you do."

David heaved a breath, "What the hell is going on, Marc?"

It had been hours since Oscar had been bound and shrouded and as far as he know, he had been swapped from the trunk of a car, to the storage bay of a plane and then into the back of a van which at the moment was shuddering along which ever road his captives were taking him. He had no sense of time or presence, he could just feel the burning of his wrists from the zip ties which blistered his skin and the seething rage that would provoke him to kill the first person he saw.

He was lying down on the cold metal floor of the van, where they had thrown him and hadn't much thought to move; he simply contemplated his first move, the second they pulled the bag from over his head, granted if they even planned to do that—if they were just going to execute him as was, he needed to come up with a better plan, soon.

As he contemplated, he felt the vehicle rattle to a halt and as the engine beneath him purred, he deduced that it would've been that moment or never. The moment they picked him up off of the floor and would try to carry him, he would knock them off of him.

The fan doors unlocked with a click and he could hear them slide open. A heavy hand grabbed for the collar of his shirt and tried to tug him to his feet, but his knees kept slipping on the floor of the vehicle—his frame of mind was focused on his escape.

"_On three,_" He thought to himself, "_I push this puto off of me and make a run._"

He was finally yanked out of the van and onto the ground outside, then he could feel another pair of hands help the first in lifting him up. The _sh-nk_ of a knife being drawn from its sheath was followed by the pop of zip tied being cut and the sudden mobility of his feet. A shove at his back led him forward as he remained in planning thought.

"_All right—got one to my nine and the other to my five._" He analysed their positions, "_On three, O': uno… dos… tres!_"

He didn't budge, but rather kept walking where led. The unfamiliarity of his surroundings kept him for attempting escape. For all he knew, he could end up running right off of a cliff.

"_Mierda. No point it it._" He thought, "Though, death might be better than whatever they've got planned for me." He could hear the jingling of keys and the clicking of lock tumblers opening up, "_Fuck… a cell? Que esta sucediendo?_"

He was forced forward and to the left, however, then he was grabbed to a halt, turned around and pushed down by his shoulders, right into a chair.

"_Shit! Electric chair?!_" His thoughts were going wild, being overtaken by fears of what could have possibly been happening. All he knew was that he needed to get out, "_Now or never, Oscar._"

The darkness lifted as the bag was pulled from his head and in that split-second, Oscar, with a battle cry, jumped up and to the left of him, knocking down one of his burly, suited, handlers. He scrambled to his feet, lacking the wherewithal to check for the second and made a beeline for what he could make of as a door. He charged into it shoulder first with a sick thud, but it was heavy, iron and immovable. He felt his shoulder wrench further than the door budged. Rocked, he stumbled back and spun around; his second captor stood there, hands up and ready to fight, but surprisingly, unarmed. Oscar took a second to check the four-sided, grey room in which he was being held and the sight of a mirror piqued his eyes.

"_Is this… a police station?_"

He charged for the two way mirror and leapt up, crashing right through it and onto the floor on the other side. Lying among the broken glass he tried to carefully gather himself, the sting of thousands of little glass shards in his arms and face, but freedom was his first priority. He scampered up and saw two doors in the room: the iron one that dislocated his shoulder and another, wooden one, which was wide open. He ran for and through it, without second thought, to end up in a lavish hallway; oil paintings and oak pillars lined the walls of the wide hall. He checked up the hall and down—still without the foggiest of ideas as to where he was, but it was a start.

He made a beeline up the hall, his arms still bound and his shoulder throbbing, but as he rounded the corner, two men, coolly ambling around the same corner on the opposite side brought him to a stumbling stop. He looked at them, then back down the hall to the goon coming from the same room. Another glance at the much less intimidating duo and his decided reaction was to headbutt the older one right in the bridge of the nose.

The older guy fell to the floor and then Oscar swung a kick to the crotch of the younger guy, but it was caught. Oscar had to take a second to realise that the very angry looking gentleman who he just tried to crotch, had his leg in a death grip, while the goon in black got closer. Oscar checked the suited heavy, then the guy holding onto his leg with kung-fu grip, but wasn't given much more time to think.

A swift fist met Oscar right in the crotch, as the guy clutching his leg gave him a five-knuckle vasectomy. He swung another uppercut right to the jewels and Oscar could feel his stomach churn; then, Chuck Norris grabbed him by the throat, clutched his jaw and forced the possibly sterile Oscar to the floor, wounded shoulder first. All he could see in the corner of his eye was a foot being lifted and ready to crush his head, so he squeezed his eyes shut and readied for it…

"David! Stop!"

Oscar opened his eyes and could see the older guy, bloody nose and all, get to his feet, adjust his jacket, dust himself off and place a calm hand on David's shoulder. Subsequently, David let go of the leg and Oscar, meanwhile, muttered a quiet prayer of gratitude. The older gentleman whispered something into David's ear and the two of them reached down to pull him to his feet.

Oscar examined the two, concerned and confused, before David shot a fast hook right to his chin, dropping him again. The old guy just smiled, admiring David's handiwork and all Oscar could do—given the painful throbbing happening all throughout his body—was throw up.

There she was: rich mocha skin; raven mane in a punk undercut, buzzed at the side and a tousled boy cut at the top; a canvas-worth of ink all over her body—all being bared as she peeled off her tattered t-shirt, backing the two way mirror—full sleeves on both arms and an elaborate serpentine design from the top of her shoulders down to the very small of her back. Her shoulders and torso were narrow, but muscular and her body flowed down to full hips which were followed by tight, smooth legs.

"What does she do, exactly?" asked David, watching her from the other side of the window.

"Hacker, black hat." Informed Marcus' assistant, Anna-Maria Silva, Annie to him, adjusting her glasses at the sight of the young woman.

"Her name?"

Annie handed him a manila folder, which he opened and examined.

"Reed." He muttered to himself.

"Sound familiar?" she asked, not taking her eyes off of Tristin.

"Remotely." He handed the folder back to her, as he watched Tristin put on the fresh shirt and cut shorts that had been laid out for her on the table in front of her, "I recall of hearing about a new young hacker around—hot shit, apparently. I had no idea it was a woman—not to say anything by that, you just don't see many of them. It's such a man's territory."

Annie turned to him, "Like wet work, David?"

David kept his eyes on Tristin, smiling, "I wonder if you and I have the same thing in mind, when you say that, Annie." Followed by a quick glance and a wink to the composed, but beautiful Anna-Maria.

She bit her lips, before leaning into him, pressing them against his ear, "Why don't I show you _exactly_ whose territory this is, David?" she pulled away, allowing him to give her another look, just as she began teasing at the top button of her blouse with her perfectly manicured finger.

"Maybe next time, Annie—" said David, nodding towards the fully dressed Tristin, looking at the mirror expectantly, "—right now, it's time to go to work." He left Annie's side and made his way through the heavy, iron door, into the interrogation room. From behind the glass, she could see the momentary surprise in Tristin's eyes as he strode up to her. The two exchanged a few words and he led them out of the room, past the aloof Annie and out through the other door, into the hallway.

Annie simply sighed, batting her eyes and muttering to herself; "_Menage a trois, then."_


	6. Welcome to Vice City

"Please, have a seat my dear." Suggested Roth, pointing to one of his leather recliners, as he and David returned to the den, though with Tristin, Oscar and Anna-Maria in tow.

Between his possibly fractured ankle and the crotch shot he had taken from David, not too long prior, Oscar could barely bring himself to hobble into the refined, rustic den, dropping his body into the chair beside Tristin, who could only examine the room with caution and impress.

Roth took his place behind the wet bar, as David pushed open the French doors leading out onto the veranda, bringing a slight draft of cooling evening air into the room.

"Now, my associate David has been adequately briefed, so all that remains is bringing the two of you up to speed." Said Roth, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, before looking up at his two new guests, "I'm sorry, what do you two take?"

A moment of shared silence between Oscar and Tristin, who—for the first time—looked at each other, unsure as to what to answer.

"Senor Guzman," continued Roth, "you look like a rum man: white or brown?" he then turned to face his extensive selection behind him.

"Brown, por favor." Requested Oscar, albeit apprehensively.

"Miss Reed. I'm guessing you're mainly a beer drinker, with an appreciation for fine wine as well."

Tristin shook her head, "No thanks."

Roth shrugged, "I understand your concern, ma'am," he poured Oscar's rum into fine crystal, over ice, before beckoning Anna to hand the glass to him. "but I can promise that I won't poison you. I've got quite a use for you—all of you, as a matter of fact." He came around from behind the bar and stood between the two chairs, momentarily averting his gaze to David who remained outside, leaning over the railing of the veranda, staring out into the sunset. He then brought his attention back to Tristin and Oscar.

"Oscar, Tristin, there is something that I need you, along with David here to do with me." He took a swig of whiskey, "Something that I absolutely need the three of you to work together to achieve for me."

"You don't look like you're in any shortage 'f people to lap at your feet." Insinuated Tristin,

"That may be the case, love, but that's just the problem." Another sip, pursing his lips as it burned the back of his throat, "My lapdogs are of no good, not for what I need done. Therefore, I sought out a trio of thoroughbreds: the three of you." He spread his arms out, signifying the two and the absent David.

"Sought out?" interjected Oscar, clutching his untouched rum in his hand, "Old man, you kidnapped me and by the looks of it, you kidnapped her, too!" He then pointed to David, "It seems to me like _he's_ the only one who came by his own will! Who the hell is he, that he gets a fucking choice? Huh?!"

Roth polished off the rest of his drink, closing his eyes as he contemplated Oscar's words, "Senor Guzman… I understand your frustration, but hear me out." He returned to the bar, to pour himself another drink, "What I need is for you three… to steal something for me."

His request came with an anticlimactic wash of confusion between the two.

"That's it?" asked Tristin, "You want us to steal something? What kind of something?"

"Something very sensitive… very dangerous." He took a sip of his second whiskey.

"No, Roth." The entire room turned to face David, who then stood in the doorway of the veranda coolly shaking his head as the setting sun bathed him in a warm, orange glow, "Now that we're all here, I want you to tell me exactly what we're stealing. I told you I'd agree to it once you did that."

Silence, as Tristin and Oscar looked back at Roth, expectantly, while Anna kept her admiring eyes upon the well-built, masculine David.

"A weapon," admitted Roth, "I want the three of you to steal a weapon for me."

"What kind of weapon?" Pressed David. Tristin and Oscar darted their sights back and forth between the two as if it were a close up tennis match.

"Military grade." This time, one quick swig and the rest of the whiskey was gone, "That's all I can tell you, because that's all I know about that. What I can tell you, however, is that as a result of its classification, it is very sensitive. Therefore, it will be harder than the Devil's balls to simply take."

"The fuck kind of analogy is that?" Intruded Tristin, as Oscar started working on his rum,

"Who hired you to steal it, Marcus?" continued David, but Roth wouldn't have it.

"I've said all I could, Davey." His tone was stern, fatherly, "I'm not at liberty to discuss anything else."

David stepped into the room and placed himself beside Tristin's chair. She looked up at him as he stood next to her, his eyes still fixed upon Roth.

"What I can say, though, is that the three of you will be paid very well. More than you've been paid for any job before. Maybe even more than all of your past work _combined._"

Oscar's eyes widened and Tristin's mouth dropped open. David remained unphased, sceptical.

"Wait," began Tristin, the thought of the possible score still on her mind, "when exactly do we need to do this? We need time to prepare, especially if it's as big as you say it is."

"That won't be a problem, dear," a washed, yet distinctive Southern twang in the way he said "Dear", "because it will be Six months from now."

"Six m-wha…?" Oscar choked on his rum,

"What? Why?" Asked David, perking an eyebrow,

"Because based on the intelligence gathered, that'll be the best time to do it. The weapon is undergoing… preliminary testing," said Roth with inference in his voice, "and once that's done, my team guessed in about twenty weeks, they'll be moving it to an undisclosed location. A location that no more than six people in this country know the existence of."

The ominous nature of Roth's description concerned the three of them, "Wait," asked Oscar, clearing his burning throat, "Who the hell are we stealing from?"

"The United States Government." Responded Roth

Eyes widened all around the room, all but Anna Maria, who simply smiled.

"Which part of the Government?" Cycling back to David, "What agency?"

Roth sighed, "All of it. All of them: I.A.A., F.I.B., N.O.O.S.E., Army, Navy… every arm of the Government that has part in homeland security, law enforcement and intelligence, has a stake this."

A silence swept the room. David turned to look back outside, contemplating the situation, while Tristin looked and him, Oscar and Roth, completely unsure.

"So," began Oscar, "what if we decline?"

A second silence, as David looked over his shoulder, as if eager to hear Roth's response, but not turning all the way, as if he already knew the answer,

"Then, I have to kill you for telling you what I have." Said Roth, suddenly gone cold, "And then I look for someone else that can take your place, someone who may be more compliant."

David nodded and Oscar leaned back into the chair, a churning in the pit of his stomach as he understood that he was truly trapped, with no way out.

Tristin looked up towards Roth, "Well then, for the next six months, what are we going to do? Where are we going to go?"

"You're going to plan, Miss Reed—" Roth leaned against the bar, swirling his empty glass of melting ice. "—you're going to put into place all of the elements to make this mission a success. As for _where_: the package is currently being held as Fort Baxter Air Base. Therefore, the three of you will be right next door."

"… In Vice City." Answered David. Peering at the skyline which peeked over the plains of Roth's ranch.

Roth nodded, "Take in the sun, sand and sea, while you have the chance."

* * *

"I've arranged a loft for the three of you to stay in while in town. It's on Vice Beach. The scenery is beautiful; you'll love it."

Those words rang with David as he loaded a few travel bags and cases into the trunk of his Fugitive, which stood parked in Roth's driveway. It was mere minutes after dawn and David had spent the majority of the past night wide awake. He never slept for more than two hours at a time; the constant readiness he had grown used to left him on edge, constantly. Opening up the front door of the house and stepping outside was Tristin, a new messenger bag slung over her shoulder and a brand new Whiz Drone smartphone in her opposite hand.

"I'm kind of pissed that they dumped my old computer and phone," she iterated, stepping towards David who had just packed the last bag into the trunk, "but if it means getting new, tricked out swag, then I guess trade-off's worth it."

David pointed to a bag with an orange tag wrapped around the strap; "That's your stuff there—" he then shut the trunk, "—I guess you'd be happy to know that they got you new clothes as well." And he brushed past her as Oscar followed through the door as well, still limping, "You ready?" David asked him.

"Honestly, hombre, I don't know if I'm ever going to be ready." Oscar hobbled over to the passenger side of the car, as David opened the driver's door, still watching him, "But clearly, I don't have a choice… so… yeah, I guess I'm ready."

David slipped into the driver's seat and Tristin into the backseat, as Oscar carefully manoeuvred himself into the passenger seat, his ankle swollen and his inner thighs numb. David turned over the engine and started up the car, Tristin booted up her new laptop and Oscar leaned back, exhaling as with a controlled growl, the Fugitive rolled down the driveway and onto the winding road lined with palm trees, which led to Vice City.

"Have you ever been to Vice before?" asked Tristin from the back seat, without specifying who the question was to.

There was a momentary silence, before Oscar answered; "I have a few times; actually had a lot of work from this side of the country. I prefer San Andreas though, since it's on the border."

David glanced at him, then back to the road. The rural scenery began bleeding into urban—the streets were lined with men and women from all walks of race and life; clusters of Haitians collected on the sidewalks, traveling in their packs like coyotes, while the occasional pair or trio of Cubans looked disjointed and at risk while littered among them. The white trailer park residents kept to their motorhomes parked on dirt patches which allowed for groups of them at a time, while across the street from their trailer parks were quaint Cuban cafes and restaurants. A journey over the bridge, Eastbound and the three found themselves in a mainly middle-class part of the city—young women carried designer shopping bags to their little sports coupes and shirtless, tanned, muscular men paraded up and down the pavements of Washington beach for the world to admire them.

The trio cruised through Vice Point, passing by what once was the hot spot for the Vice City elite as well as its underworld, the notorious Malibu Club, now reconstructed into the Andromeda Lounge, just as awash in Vice City's glitz and glamour and just as much a seedy cesspit for the underworld. Finally, they came upon the Vice Beach strip, which stretched along the coastline of hotels, apartments, restaurants and clubs.

"Number one twenty, Lincoln Avenue, Vice Beach." Mentioned Tristin, peering over her laptop and pointing past the front seats at the apartment building, "There."

David pulled into the allotted entrance which led to an underground parking garage. There, the three stepped out of the car, Oscar massaging his ankle as he did and they stepped around back to the trunk, ready to grab their bags and make their way to the loft.

"It's on the seventeenth floor." Added Tristin, her laptop tucked away in her messenger bag, but her eyes fixed upon the screen of her phone, as David unlocked the trunk with the keys, "Apartment number seventeen-oh-four.

"All right." Affirmed David, "The first thing we do when we get settled—"

Then, his sentence was interrupted by the wail of screeching tyres and the roar of a speeding car, echoing as an ice blue Lampadati Felon barrelled into the garage from the street and drilled right into a support pillar with a mighty crash that sent the three diving behind David's Fugitive for cover.

"The fuck?!" screamed Oscar over the chaos.

David peered over the rear fender at the Felon, crumpled by the unscathed pillar and readied himself to check the occupants, but he was halted by the rumble of a second engine as a Cavalcade SUV darted down into the garage as well, but skidded to a halt just short of the crashed Felon. David held his position and motioned for Tristin and Oscar to do the same as the three remained crouched behind the car. From where he stood, David could notice the doors of the Cavalcade open and four men pour out—all of them Italian and all of them carrying MP5 SMGs.

"Check the car! The boss wants the bitch alive, the rest of 'em; you waste 'em!" shouted one of the mobsters in a heavy Northern accent. The other three inched towards the wreck and each of them pulled open a door. The two that opened the front doors, immediately riddled the driver and front passenger with bullets and the one that opened the back reached in before coming back out, tugging a body out of the car along with him.

"The fuck is going on?" whispered Tristin, but David kept his eyes on what was unfolding. From the Felon, the Mafiosi pulled a young Asian woman, unconscious and bleeding at the temple.

"Ey, Beppe! We got 'er!" shouted the thug, clutching the girl. David, meanwhile, pulled back his jacket and rested his hand upon the grip of his .45

"Oye, David. Aren't we going to do something?" asked Oscar, rubbing his ankle.

"This isn't our fight, Oscar." Assured a stoic David, "We just need to make sure we survive the crossfire."

"She can't fuckin' defend herself!" Oscar tried to keep his voice down, "She's unconscious, we got to help her, ese!"

"No… we don't, Oscar." David insisted, but Oscar tried pulling himself up so that he could reach for his bag in the trunk.

"Fine, you stay here. Deal with that shit on your own conscience, D'." He pulled his duffel from the trunk, marked with a red tag and unzipped it. Reaching in, shoving his hand between a bundle of clothes, he pulled from the bag his 12-guage pump-action shotgun. He pulled himself to a wobbly base and limped from behind the car.

"Beppe, who the fuck is that?" said one of the mobsters pointing at Oscar, while the one that carried the girl made his way to the Cavalcade.

"Eh! Leave the girl alone!" demanded Oscar, limping towards the Mafiosi, pumping his shotgun.

"Stay the fuck out of this, buddy." Shouted Beppe, "We got business with the girl and her family."

"I know exactly what that means t'you Mafia fucks." Oscar raised his weapon, "So I ain't gonna ask again… let the girl go."

"Luca, Mario," motioned Beppe, heading for the driver's door, "waste this clown. We' got a plane to catch."

The other two took aim at Oscar, who had to react quickly. He spun the barrel of the shotgun, took aim at one the guys, prayed the buckshot would hit the other and squeezed the trigger…

POP! POP!

Luca and Mario dropped, each of them with a bullet in the centre of the chest. Beppe spun around and the guy carrying the girl dropped her on the ground, taking aim at Oscar with his SMG.

POP!

With an agonising scream of pain, the unnamed thug dropped to the ground, taking a bullet to his knee, exploding his knee cap and the leg of his chinos soaking in blood. Beppe, meanwhile, took cover behind the Cavalcade and Oscar turned to see David gripping his suppressed .45, edging towards him, the barrel still smoking and aiming right for Beppe.

The guy on the ground struggled to pull his MP5 around to take fire, his leg throbbing in searing pain, but David saw him, pivoted his way and delivered a round right between his eyes, spraying blood all over the parking lot ground. The girl laid among the bodies, still unmoving, perhaps dead herself, while Beppe began to panic in his cover, contemplating if to fight or flee.

"Listen to me very carefully." Shouted David for Beppe to hear, "I know which family you're from. You let Roy Zito know that David Barrett just downsized his operation by three guys."

"D-David… who?" Beppe asked, cowering,

"That doesn't matter to you, meat." David kept the barrel high, his finger over the trigger, "Roy knows me very well. You tell him that I intercepted the girl and that if he sends another squad down here for her, I'm going to return all to sender in caskets. We clear?"

Without another word, Beppe clamoured into the driver's seat, started the car and sped off without even shutting the door—leaving the three and the girl.

"Thanks," said Oscar, and David spun around, grabbed him by the collar and forced him backwards, bumping into the wrecked Felon.

"The only reason I saved your ass, was because Roth needs you for this job. I was doing _him_ a favour, not you." Uttered David between gritted teeth, "The next time you pull shit like that, I'm going to leave you to get gutted." He ripped his hand from Oscar's collar as Tristin tried to pull the girl, who was about the same size as her, to her feet. David helped her, before picking the girl up and carrying her himself. Oscar simply watched on, wincing as he limped behind them.

* * *

David gently rested the girl on the floor of the loft, cradling her head in his hands, "First things, first, we stabilise her neck." he looked at Tristin, "Get me a towel from the bathroom and see if you can find duct tape or some nylon cord." She hurried off as he pulled a pocket knife from inside his jacket, flipping it open.

"D'you need me to get something?" asked Oscar, dropping his bags on the floor at the door and limping over to David and the girl,

"Alcohol and dressings. We need to clean this wound on her head and stop the bleeding."

Oscar nodded and hobbled off, just as Tristin came back with a towel and a roll of silver tape. David, meanwhile took the knife and cut at the tape and towel and using them made an improvised neck brace which he wrapped around the girl's neck. He gently lifted her torso to properly apply it, but in doing so, as his eyes travelled to her neck and down her back, he stopped.

"What's wrong?" asked Tristin, as David looked down the girl's back, brushing her hair aside to get a better look.

"Fuck me." Muttered David, as he took the knife and began cutting at the girl's blouse, shredding it into strips. When he was done, he clutched the girl's head and braced her torso with his strong hands, his eyes following an elaborate tattoo which adorned her back.

"What is it?" still continued Tristin, though this time, David looked up at her, noticeable concern in his eyes.

"I've seen this before, this artwork…" he calmly explained as Oscar returned with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton padding and gauze, "… this girl…"

David looked at Oscar, then back down to the girl in his arms.

"This girl… is _Yakuza._"


	7. Some People Can't Take A Hint

_Click._

"Hello?"

"_David._"

"Yeah?"

"_It's Roy. The fuck is going on? Am I hearing correctly, you're in Vice City, shootin' up my guys?_"

"Beppe got back t'you fast, Roy."

"_Poor bastard's shit scared. He's holed up at the Von Crastenburg hotel, too busy pissin' himself to get on a plane!_"

David chuckled.

"_This ain't fuckin' funny David! D'you have any fuckin' idea who you got holed up there?_"

"I have some idea."

"_… Well, then, maybe you understand why it's very important that she's brought to me?_"

"Actually Roy, I don't. In fact, it doesn't matter why. You want her? You can have her—I was intervening for a colleague of mine who didn't understand the importance of keeping his hands to himself."

"_So… what… this was all to prove some fuckin' point? You killed three o' my guys to tell your boy to keep it in his pants? I ought'a cut'ya fuckin' tongue out for pullin' bullshit like that David!_"

"Like I said Roy: you want the girl so badly? _Come and get her._"

_Click._

David sat at the dining room table, which was situated directly in front of the guest bedroom of the loft—looking over his shoulder and through the open door, he could see the unconscious girl on the bed, fast asleep and her head wrapped in blood-stained gauze.

"So're you really going to just let them come and get her?" asked Tristin, sitting on the very same table which David sat at, she too looking into the bedroom before looking at him.

"I don't know yet." Replied David, not taking his eyes off of the girl, "I want to know what's going on first. Roy can come if he wants her, but once I find out what's going on, I'll decide if to stop him or not."

Tristin slid off of the table, touching cold, tiled floor with her bare feet, "I'm surprised you even care so much. You were ready to just leave her down there."

David turned his gaze toward her, staring her in her hazel eyes, "I'm a professional, but that doesn't mean I'm heartless."

She smiled.

As the two shared a moment of mutual silence, David reverting his attention back to the unnamed girl, the front door opened from the outside—

"All right," said Oscar, a brown paper bag in his arms, "there's a little Cubano shop a couple of blocks down the street, but there wasn't much: booze, T.V. dinners, lottery tickets and cigars."

He set the bag in front of David, pulling out three frozen trays of microwaveable meals, followed by a six pack of Logger Lite. "But the owner told me that there's a supermarket on the other side of town," he then looked at Tristin, who found herself on the sofa, feet kicked up and laptop on her thighs, "so I'm thinkin' that you and me can go shopping a little later, _Mami_." He flashed her a wink and she smirked with a patronising wave.

"You should be the one watching her." Added David, shooting a glance at him—Oscar simply shrugged,

"But you do it so well, hermano." And he made his way past the island separating the dining and kitchen areas to the tall, aluminium, double-door fridge, to store his chilled brews.

David looked over to Tristin before rising from his seat at the table and making his way over to her, "Where are you on digging into Fort Baxter's databases for this 'package'?"

"It's not exactly a "done in one afternoon" kind of thing." She explained, tapping away at the keyboard "I'm going to be at this for a few hours. Maybe even a day or two."

David leaned on the back of the sofa, looking at her screen, puzzled.

"What's wrong?" she asked him,

"I just…" he thought of how to word it, "I-I don't know how you can do that. Spend hours on end in front of the computer screen—that would drive me insane."

She shrugged, "Welcome to my generation, D'. We all do it."

He straightened up, grinning, "Exactly how old d'you think I am?"

She stopped, gazed up at him and smiled, before reaching and playfully twirling a greying tuft of hair at the top of his forehead between her fingers. "You tell me." She said.

"_Oye._" Said Oscar, in the middle of sticking the microwave dinners in the freezer—David and Tristin both turned their gaze to him and then to where he motioned; the bedroom door. The angle at which they were, they couldn't see into the room, but Oscar edged from the kitchen towards the door. Then, with a shout, he dropped to the floor as a lamp soared over him, right where his head would've been and hit the kitchen floor with a crash. David darted from the sofa and Tristin leapt over it and the two ran into the room, to see their patient, very much awake and standing in the open window frame which only led to the street seventeen floors down.

"Wait! Don't!" shouted Tristin, but David had no time for words as he sprang forward and before she could jump, grabbed her by her waist and pulled her back into the room, tumbling onto the floor with her in his arms.

"Wait… s-stop! We're trying to… h-help… you!" he struggled to explain as he rolled about on the floor with the struggling girl. Oscar recovered and found himself standing next to Tristin in the doorway, only able to watch.

* * *

"Please, listen," begged Tristin, "we were just trying to help you." But her appeal was met by a deathly glare from the Japanese girl, who sat in the sofa, legs crossed and arms bound behind her back with zip ties.

"You know, this kind of seems wrong." Mentioned Oscar, holding an ice pack to his ankle as he sat away from the other three, in the dining area, "Considering—you know—us?"

"It works." Replied David, standing where he did before, behind the sofa, while Tristin kneeled in front of it and the girl simply looked down into her lap:

"You three are bringing death upon yourselves if you don't let me go."

"You're not in a position to be making threats." Said David,

"I may not be," she continued, "but my brother _is_ in a position to carry them out."

Tristin looked up at David who remained unphased, then back to the Japanese girl.

"You all don't understand who I am," she kept on, through gritted teeth "who our family is and what we do to those who threaten us, cheat us or try to kill us.

"I'll say it again—" responded David, looking down at the back of her head, as she kept staring into her lap "—I have some idea." He then leaned over, almost near enough to whisper into her ear, "_Marufuji-gumi._"

She looked up, eyes widened and over her shoulder as David straightened back up. She then turned to the still kneeling Tristin and without warning, swung her leg for a hard kick right to the jaw. Tristin fell backwards and with arms still bound, the Japanese girl stepped with a bare foot right onto her neck—in that split second, David drew his .45 from his hip holster, taking aim and Oscar dropped the ice pack, grabbing for a chef's knife—from the knife block on the island between the kitchen and the dining area—and holding it at a ready.

"You'll let me go, or I'll crush her throat." Said the girl, applying weight to the foot on Tristin's neck.

"Up yours, bitch!" struggled Tristin, through her tight windpipe.

"Go ahead." Nodded David,

"D-David?! What the fuck?!" Tristin squirmed as she tried to lift the leg off of her throat, but to no avail, "Sh-shit. I want what... ever workout p-plan you're on."

Oscar chuckled as the girl looked down at Tristin furiously. David pulled his trigger, but the round whizzed just past her face and buried itself in the drywall behind her —she was taken off guard by the shot and Tristin took the opportunity, grabbing her ankle and wrenching it aside, causing her to split to the floor. Tristin spun on her side, lining up her heel with the girl's face and thrusting a hard kick of her own, whipping the girl's head back with the impact. She then scrambled to her feet and towards Oscar, while David grabbed the girl's arm, pulled her to her feet and seated her back on the sofa, bloody nose and all.

"Let's not do that again." David assured, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket and giving to her, "If we wanted to _forcefully_ interrogate you, we... _I_... would've already got what I needed to know and you would aready be dead."

She took the kerchief from him and held it against her nose, soaking up the blood, and clutching her unbandaged temple, a residual headache setting in.

"Who are you... what did those Gambetti thgus want with you?" asked David,

The girl looked up at him, and then back down, "My name... is Hitomi."

"Hitomi... Marufuji." he finished. She nodded.

"So that's why they wanted you." continued Oscar, a flustered Tristin standing beside him, clutching her jaw, "To kidnap the gang leader."

She looked back, shrugging, "I'm not the leader; my father... was. After he was killed, my brother took over—as for me, I never tried to involve myself with the family business."

"So leverage, then?" asked Tristin from behind her hand,

"I don't know." Hitomi turned back to David, who stood in front of her, looking down, "We've never done any business with the Gambetti family. Nor any of the Mafia—we were barely making a stake in Liberty City, trying to pick up from where the Kasen clan left off."

David looked at her and then back at Oscar and Tristin, but his thoughts were interrupted by the roar of an engine and the screeching of tyres outside the loft, to the street below. He made his way to the balcony and looked over the rail where he could see three black Washington sedans pull up in front of the apartment building and at least a dozen Mafia heavies pour out of them, among them was Beppe.

"Roy, you greasy fuck." he muttered to himself. He marched back into the room, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and threw it to Hitomi, "Unlock code is zero-eight-nine-two; call your brother, tell him where you are, tell him you need help."

"What's going on?" asked Tristin as Oscar limped over to his shotgun which stood propped up against the wall.

"Our friends from the mob are back." David said, eyeing Oscar as his words prompted Tristin to reach for her travel bag and pull an UZI from it. "And Oscar..."

Oscar looked around as he reached for the barrel of his gun. David walked over to him, grabbed him by the collar and forced him into one of the armchairs circling the centre of the room.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell're you doing, hermano?!" squealed Oscar. David grabbed his bum leg, stretched it out, held onto the ankle and with a firm wrench—

CRICK! CR-ACK!

"AI-YEE!" hollered Oscar, as David maneuvred the ankle, twisting it and dropped his leg.

"... Your hobbling around like a gimp was getting on my nerves."

Oscar grabbed his swollen ankle, the pain gone, "Oye, muchas gracias Dave."

"No time for grattitude." David threw a UMP submachine gun which he dug from his own bag into Oscar's hands, "There're too many guys; that shotgun won't be any good."

Oscar checked the loaded magazine and retracted the charging handle with a smile, "Muy bien."

David clutched the grip of his .45, his finger floating over the trigger as he pushed the front door open, aiming into the empty hallway.

"I called him." shouted Hitomi from inside, "He's here... in Vice City... he's coming."

"Good." David scanned up and down the hall, "We're dead if we take the elevator—ground floor is seventeen flights down and they'll be watching the stairs."

"So what then?" called out Tristin, easing behind him.

Oscar pushed his way past the two of them and led the charge into the hallway, his bag slung over his shoulder, "We run right through them."

David nodded. He and Tristin grabbed their bags, strapped them over their respective shoulders and he handed a pistol to Hitomi.

"Stay on us, we'll be moving fast."

She nodded, handing him his cell phone, "Don't slow me down." and she followed behind Oscar as Tristin waited at the door for David.

"Go." he motioned for her to follow the others, "I'll cover the rear."

Tristin ran into the hallway and David behind her, turning about and keeping watch at the back of the line, while Oscar led to the front, standing by the door to the stairs. He clutched the knob, turned around to Hitomi, Tristin and David stationed behind them and gave them a nod to which they likewise gestured and pushed through the door, UMP aimed high. The four made their way down the tightly twisting flight of stairs, first passing the large painted "16" on the wall after descending two flights, then "15", "14", "13", "12";

"We might be able to get through this without too much hassle." declared Oscar from the front, as he led the group past "11".

"Don't count 'em out just yet." responded David from the back, aiming up the stairs from which they were coming.

"I know, I know, we've still got a hell'f a way to go."

"Hey! Check the stairs, I hear somethin'!" shouted a Libertian accent from below.

"Fuck!" exclaimed Tristin.

"All right." affirmed David spinning around and facing forward, "_We run right through 'em._"

Oscar nodded and slowed his pace, trying to peer around the downward corner as much as he could. He couldn't make out anything, except a few shifting shadows, until...

"I see 'em!"

The Mafiosi opened fire, riddling the walls with bullets as the foursome back pedaled and readied themselves. David looked over his shoulder to the tenth floor door and with the thrust of his shoulder, burst it open.

"C'mon!" he slipped into the tenth floor common hallway and the other three behind him, but rather than run, they took cover behind the door, glancing around at the sight of their aggressors approaching.

"You check there, I'll head up!" shouted one of them as the echoing of footsteps faded and the light shuffle of nearby feet grew louder.

David stood closest to the door and he freed his right arm, tightly gripping the pistol in his left hand, waiting for the right moment. He closed his eyes and listened, waiting, timing it—

He spun around, coming face-to-face with the mobster and pushed all of his weight forward, bracing his AK-47 against his chest and pushing the barrel away. The thug pulled the trigger and stray bullets flew, but hit nothing but the walls, richocheting all about. David charged him backwards into the rail of the stairs, spine first and the shock made him let go of the rifle, dropping it to the floor, allowing David to kick it under the rail and down between the stairs. The rifle fell ten floors to hit the ground below, as David delivered a stiff right elbow to the thug's face. A kick to the shin and then an upward elbow to the jaw.

The second one came from upstairs, readying his rifle, but then Oscar emerged from behind the door and double tapped, delivering two rounds to the chest and dropping him. The first thug pushed David back and swung for a hit, but he ducked, low shoulder checked him to the ribs and sprung back up as he was dazed, twisting him around and wrapping his arm around the thug's throat, clenching with his forearm and bicep. Using his human shield, David led the group forward and down the stairs, gangster in his right hand, pistol aimed straight ahead in his left.

Two more came up the stairs, but refrained from opening fire—their delay was long enough to take two suppressed rounds to the chest each, dropping them. Down a few more flights and the group had reached floor two, proceeding forward only to be met by a shut door which let to the parking garage and halting. David paused, expecting an ambush from behind the door and he looked back to see that Oscar, Tristin and Hitomi may have bene expecting the same.

On the other side of the door, awaited four gangsters, all taking aim right at it with their AK-47s. Standing behind them, centred was Beppe, a vengeful smirk on his face.

"We'll see who's got big balls, when you come through that door, y'piece of shit."

However, the foursome waited, with no sign of David and the others.

Beppe pulled out his cell phone and quick dialed, "'Ey, any sign of 'em on the other side?"

"Nah Beppe," shouted the voice from the other end of the call, "All clear, if we see 'em, we clap 'em."

"A'ight." and he ended the call, before looking back at the door and his gunmen.

POP!

They all shuddered and readied to fire as a smoking round passed through the door.

"Hold ya fire!" shouted Beppe "We don't shoot 'til we see 'em!"

POP! POP!

Two more coming through the wooden door, one hitting the ground right by one of the gunmen's feet.

"Fuck me, Bep'!" he shouted, "They'll get us before we get them!"

"Unless one'f you's gets hit, you wait 'til you see 'em!" commanded Beppe

Then, silence...

POP! POP! POP! POP!

"ARGH!" one of the gunmen dropped as he took a round to the thigh and as if on cue, the other three opened fire, riddling the door with lead. They all emptied their magazines into the door and simulaneously stopped to reload.

"No! Fuck no!" screamed Beppe

Then, David burst through the door, only pistol in hand and lined up his shots. One, two, three, he picked off each of the standing gunmen with a shot and edged closer to the one on the ground, who struggled to pick up his AK-47 , scrambling for dear life.

POP!

David fired one right into the chest and his arms fell limp. By then, Beppe had already hauled ass and fled the garage.

"Do we get away now?" asked Tristin as she, Oscar and Hitomi spilled out of the doorway from behind David. At the top of the small flight of stairs lay the body of the once human shield of a thug, a bullet in his temple and blood on the wall from the exit wound.

"No." uttered David, his face like stone and his gun held high, "_We finish this._"


	8. Your Reputation Precedes You

Beppe scrambled into the streets, clamouring for his cell phone and redialing the last number.

"Gio! You and the boys get ya asses on the South side, now!"

From the open archway leading to the parking garage, David emerged, pistol in hand, taking aim for the fleeing Beppe while Tristin, Oscar and Hitomi followed.

"David! What're waiting for? Shoot him!" shouted Oscar,

David clenched his jaw, hesitated and then pulled the trigger. The round passed through Beppe's shoulder like butter and he hit the asphalt, screaming in agony. David lowered his weapon and jogged over to him, but the ricochet of a round off of a nearby lamp post put him on guard. He spun around to see four more Mafioso rounding the corner of the building, AK's in hand and opening fire.

Oscar and the girls ducked back into the garage, while David took cover behind a dumpster. He released his magazine, loading a fresh one and got ready to spring from his cover.

Then, a roaring engine, one revving far too high for an average commuter. David peeked over the dumpster to see a speeding blue Felon, identical to Hitomi's, barelling down the streets. The mobsters spun around and all tried to dive out of the way, but one of them wasn't fast enough, getting mowed over by the luxury sedan and spraying blood on the grille and hood.

David took the chance and at the moment, so did Oscar and the girls. They all emerged, opening fire on the last three Mafioso, empying their clips into them. After the bevvy of gunshots, silence, as the foursome looked over to the Felon, crossing both lanes in the middle of the street and the engine still running. The back passenger-side door open and a young Japanese man in a crisp grey suit stepped out, Python six-shooter in hand.

The Japanese man examined the carnage, the mobsters bodies in the street, David, Oscar, Tristin and Hitomi, all while three more men emerged from the Felon, UZIs in hand. The leader of the group then paused, before raising his weapon and taking aim at David, who responded by doing likewise.

"Kaito! No, stop!" shouted Hitomi, holding up her hand, "They saved me! Don't!"

Kaito kept the revolver held high in his right hand and extended his left arm, while his henchmen alternated aim among David, Tristin and Oscar.

"Hitomi, _watashi ni kuru._" he called out. Then, a barefoot Hitomi ran towards him and into his arms-he grabbed onto her and as he did, lowered his weapon, signalling for his men to do the same.

The two then spoke to each other in Japanese, while the other three watched on, Oscar and Tristin walking over to David.

"You don't speak Japanese, by any chance?" asked Tristin to David,

"He asked her what happened," he answered, "she's explaining everything to him as far as she knows."

Tristin and Oscar stepped back, before he grinned, "What the hell can't you do, ese?"

"I'm a lousy cook." quipped David, holstering his sidearm. The three clutched their bags, slung over their respective shoulders as they watched on, the reuinted siblings sharing an embrace. Then Hitomi turned to them and waved them forward, as she and Kaito parted.

"Kaito, I want you to meet the people that sa-."

She wasn't given the chance to finish her sentence, as the crack of a bullet being fired pierced the air and Kaito grunted as he took a shot to the chest. Hitomi screamed as he hit the ground and the three dove behind the Felon, more shots firing and another squad of Mafia goons coming from around the building.

Kaito's guards opened fire, as did the Mafiosi-all the while, Oscar and Tristin piled into the Felon, while David had to grab onto a hysteric Hitomi and force her to do the same. Keeping low, he crept toward Kaito and pressed his fingers against carotid, feeling for a pulse.

"He's still alive!" he shouted, "Oscar! Help me get him into the car!"

Oscar emerged and the two, all while trying to keep below the open fire, loaded Kaito's lifeless form into the back seat, into the girls' laps. Tristin tucked his legs in, allowing Oscar to shut the door, while Hitomi, clutched his face, tears running down her cheeks as she sobbed in broken Japanese.

Oscar slipped into the passenger side, but rather than going for the driver's seat, David scrambled along the asphalt.

"Oye! David! The fuck're you doing?! Let's go!" shouted Oscar from the car, but David continued jogging as he kept his body low, until he came to Beppe, cowering behind the same dumpster he hid behind earlier.

"You're coming with me, shiteater." David commanded, drawing his gun and aiming it at Beppe's temple, while tugging on his jacket sleeve. Oscar jumped into the driver's seat and disengaged the parking brake, rolling the car up to David and Beppe. The former approached the trunk and beat it with his palm, signalling for Oscar the pop it; it unlatched and David opened it up, stuffing the large-set Italian into the trunk and clocking him in the face, knocking him out cold before shutting the lid on him. He then pulled out his cell phone as he slipped into the passenger's side and Oscar hit the gas, peeling off.

"What're you doing?" asked Tristin, as David checked his phone, "Now's not the time to be fucking Bleeting!"

"Making a couple phone calls." A few taps of the screen and David paused for a moment.

A massive explosion shook the car as the girls turned around and looked through the rear window; the Yakuza henchmen struggled to their feet, rocked by the explosion as flames and smoke poured out of and engulfed the parking garage, clearly having just come from what used to be David's Fugitive.

"David! You had me driving around in a fucking bomb?!" shouted Tristin as she spun back around to David, unperturbed as he dialed a number.

Kaito's eyelids fluttered, groaning as Hitomi pressed a towel, that she had grabbed from Tristin's bag, onto his bullet wound. She fought back the tears, whispering to him, all while Tristin could only watch and Oscar periodically checked the back seat.

"Eyes forward Oz." said David, before, "Roth? Barrett."

"_David? You've got me worred, calling me so soon._" said Roth from the other line, only David hearing him,

"There's been a problem. The safehouse's been compromised, we're relocating."

"_Where?_"

"A secure location. I'll fill you in once we've arrived."

"_Alright David._" his voice then turned stern "_I hope this won't interrupt things. Not already._"

David went quiet, "It won't." then ended the call.

A moment of silence from the occupants of the vehicle, before Oscar asked, "So... where're we going D?"

David looked over to him, then back ahead; "I have a safehouse in Vinewood Beach. Low profile and until today, no one else knew about it."

Oscar contemplated his route as he came up to a red light.

"We'll need to stop in a parking lot first, preferably multistory, covered." continued David, "We'll ditch this car, get a new vehicle and I'll drive us the rest of the way there."

The rest of the drive in the Felon was in silence, as Oscar found his way to the parking garage of the grandiose Esplanade Mall. There, the crew swapped over into a commandeered, navy blue Vapid Minivan-carrying Beppe and Kaito-with David taking the wheel. They rolled out of the garage and back onto the streets, making their way to Vinewood Beach.

* * *

The journey ended as the crew pulled up to the back of a nondescript house in the middle of an urban Vinewood Beach neighbourhood. The pale blue walls were spider-webbed with blackening algae and the shrubbery around the house had become jungle-like overgrowth. Inside, the smell of damp sawdust and the stickiness of sea spray against the walls left much to be desired, though for the moment, that was on no one's mind, as David and Oscar struggled to carry the limp Kaito into the bedroom and Hitomi and Tristin followed, bags in arms.

"Tristin, look in my bag; you should find a lighter, hand it to me." requested David, as he removed the blood-soaked towel from Kaito's wound, examining the bullet's entry, before tearing open Kaito's shirt. "Oz, go into the bathroom-in the medicine cabinet, there should be a bottle of alcohol."

Oscar sprinted for the bathroom and Tristin handed David his gunmetal lighter, a military insignia engraved into the casing, as he pulled a black pocket knife from one of the pockets of his cargo pants. Oscar returned with the bottle, which David uncapped, pouring the alcohol over the blade and setting it alight, sterilising it.

"Don't worry." he assured Hitomi, her breathing heavy and panicked, "It's just a flesh wound-the round was small caliber and hit nothing vital; he'll be okay."

As the other three watched, David incised at a point of the wound with the razor-sharp blade, causing Tristin to cringe and Oscar to widen his eyes in fascination.

"Got it, D?" he asked, leaning over, just behind David.

"Almost... a little deeper than I-ugh, yeah."

David pulled the mangled round from Kaito's muscle with the edge of the blade and threw it onto the floor.

"Tris," he looked to her, "Get a fresh towel and apply some pressure. I'll wash my hands and get some gauze."

She did that and shortly after David had Kaito bandaged and recovering. While Hitomi sat by his bedside as he remained unconscious, David, Oscar and Tristin stood in the kitchen, David mixing some Electrolyte powdered drink mix in a glass pitcher.

"He's not waking up." mentioned Tristin nervously.

"His blood sugar's low." replied David, pouring the brightly coloured drink mix into a glass and handing it to her, "Give her this, see if she can get him to drink it. Sit him up first..."

Oscar grabbed the glass from him, "I'll give her." and headed into the room, kneeling beside Hitomi and helping her adjust Kaito. Tristin looked back, smiling, before turning to David, who put the pitcher in the rusting, groaning fridge and turned walked to the living room, carrying his travel bag with him.

"You're amazing, you know that?" she gushed as he took a seat on the sofa, setting the bag in front of him and pulling out his cell phone.

"Not really." he dismissed, "I'm actually a pretty shit human being... I'm just useful."

Tristin sat down in an armchair opposite him, bringing her feet up onto the seat and crossing her legs. She eyed the phone in his hand and then looked up at him, "David."

Without looking up, David responded, "Yeah?"

"Who are you? Exactly?"

David stopped and slowly carried his gaze up to her, before slipping his phone into his pocket, "What d'you mean?"

"Who are you?" she reiterated, "I mean... I'm going to be working with you for the next, what? Six months? I've known you for, like, a day... and you've pretty much amazed me already."

David pursed his lips.

"Who are you?" she asked again, "Where are you from? What did you do? I feel like... I want to know this guy that I've got to trust my life with for the next few months."

David hesitated, "Why ask me? Why don't you ask Oscar about him?" and pulled his phone back out.

"Because," said Tristin, her face solemn, "I'm afraid of you."

David looked at her again, silence between the two and tension thick in the air.

"Hey." interrupted Oscar, striding into the room, only to stop at the sight of the two of them staring at each other and then back at him, "I'm not getting in the way of something, am I?"

"No." said the two simultaneously.

"Okay..." he raised his eyebrows, "... well, Kai's gonna be okay, it seems. Hitomi's pretty shaken, so she's lying down in the other room."

"Good." said David, Tristin remained silent, staring at him.

"But, what about the guido?" asked Oscar, sitting on the arm of the sofa and crossing his arms. "He's still in the back of the van-we can't keep him forever."

"I say we dump him in the river with it." stated Tristin, leaning back into the chair, her hair falling in front of her face.

"No." declined David, "I brought him with us for a reason. I want to know what Roy wants with the girl."

"Why does it matter?" asked Tristin,

"It doesn't. Rather, it didn't." David stood up from his seat, "But we got pulled into this, so now we see it through."

Oscar looked at him, "Tell me, hermano... army? Marines?"

"Navy." answered David, "Why?"

Oscar stood up as well, leading the way to back door, "_No man left behind._ Military through and through."

An hour later, Beppe awoke in the basement of the house, his arms and legs bound to a rickety wooden chair. As he shook off the cobwebs, his blurry vision formed into the sight of David, Oscar and Tristin, all three staring at him with complete contempt.

"Glad you could join us." greeted Oscar snidely, "I was getting impatient."

Beppe tried as hard as he could to play it brave, "F-fuck you, you spick asshole! D-d'you have any idea who you're f-fuckin' with? Fucking Roy Zito, Don of the Gambetti family!"

"Terrifying." Tristin's voiced oozed sarcasm, "Your boss sounds like a pasta dish."

"Fuck you!" spat Beppe, "They'll fucking find me, and they'll fucking kill all'f ya! They'll cut'ya fuckin' tongues out and dump ya in the Humboldt!"

"No, Beppe." said David, coolly, breaking his silence. "He won't." He leaned over the table between him and his captive, his clenched fists pressing onto the table top, "Roy already knows you're here. I called him and told him myself."

"Wh-what?" Beppe was sweating bullets,

"D'you know what he said when I told him?" continued David, imposingly, "Nothing. He hung up the phone."

"You're as good to him as dead." added Tristin,

Beppe squeezed out a nervous chuckle, "A'ight. If that's how it is, kill me then, 'cause I ain't tellin' you shit!"

David smirked devilishly, "Too easy." and with a lightning fast motion, grabbed onto Beppe's jaw and tried to force his mouth open. With his other hand, he reached behind his back and pulled from his waistband a silver staple gun. Beppe squealed in fear as he saw it, unable to fight David off of his face.

"Now, Beppe." said David, holding the staple gun to Beppe's face, "Let's see how strong the code of silence really is."


	9. The Fine Red Line

"_'ello?_"

"Roy."

"_David. Where's Beppe?_"

"D'you mean, '_Where's Beppe, is he safe and free of any physical and psychological scarring?_', or '_Where's Beppe, or rather his many dismembered pieces? Which resevoir-slash-landfill am I going to have to scour?_'?"

"_I'm afraid to tell'ya which one I meant._"

"It's a little bit of both, but mainly the former. He's on a plane heading back to Liberty City, but he didn't leave our encounter unscathed."

"_The hell did you do?_"

"I stapled his tongue to a table."

"_The fu-?_"

"He's lucky he got to keep it. I needed him to tell me what he knew."

A hush fell over the conversation, "_W-what did he tell you?_"

"What does Kenny Petrovic have to do with the girl, Roy?"

Roy swore under his breath, "_What did that bitch tell you?_"

"He just gave me a name; for his sake, I let him off after that. I figured I'd ask you the rest."

"_I don't have anything else to tell you, Dave-_"

"Yes you do, Roy." David's voice was strict and commanding, "I'm talking to you now and you know that _you_ won't rest until I get what I want."

A frustrated yet desperate sigh escaped Roy Zito, contemplating the futility of his silence. "_Alright, fine... here's what's up._"

* * *

She closed her eyes and her mind drifted into the soothing synth-waves which flowed from her headphones-cradling her mind in aural bliss. Her eyes slowly peeled open to the cool blue glow of the screen in front of her as the building bass drops shook her very breath. Her eyes steadily widened as her fingers found their place on the softly backlit keyboard-the process which followed seemingly flowed from her appendages as if they were muscle memory. Elaborate habit which reproduced itself as she busily tapped away, her keystrokes in sync with the lifting riffs and beats.

From the kitchen, David ambled into the living room-seeing Tristin seated at the sofa, her head and shoulders gently bopping and swaying to the beats that only she could hear. Oscar emerged from the bedroom with Hitomi in tow, but rather than her cheeks stained with tears, her eyes burned with fury as she tightened her dainty hand into a fist.

"So," began Oscar, Hitomi stepping past him and taking a seat at one of the dining chairs, "did he tell you anything?"

David edged to Tristin, and tapping her on the shoulder, broke her entranced flow as she jumped in her seat and twisted behind her, pulling one side of her headphones away from her ears.

"Shhhhit." she had drawn out, "You jumped me. I was getting into it."

David, paying her response little mind, then approached Hitomi while Oscar eased forward, still quizzing him, "D., what did Roy say?"

David placed a hand on the back of Hitomi's chair. "I need you to tell me what you've got to do with the Petrovic Bratva."

Hitomi peered up at him, momentary shock in her eyes before a grimace of disgusted expectation replaced it, "Of course... why didn't I think of those fucking Russians?

"What's going on?" asked Tristin, approaching the conversation with her headphones hanging from her neck, the lead tucked in the back pocket of her tight-fitted, hip-hugging jeans, "What about the Russians?"

Hitomi fell silent as all eyes drifted to her, her head hung solemnly. She looked back up and began to retell: "About a year ago; Kenny Petrovic, seeing that the Russian Mafiya were losing influence in Liberty City, decided to traffic girls in from far East. The plan was straight-forward enough; his guys'd find the poor, working-class families in countries like Thailand and Vietnam and convince them that they'd find work for their sons and daughters in Japan. The ones that would talk the families into agreeing to let their kids go were usually locals, that way they were trusted. Kenny'd find them and pay them however they liked, telling them to tell the families about job opportunities they heard about, as a way to get the kids to Japan."

"So I'm guessing," interrupted Oscar, "that once the kids got to Japan, the Russians would ship the girls to America."

Hitomi nodded, "The girls would be forwarded to the 'States, while the guys would be threatened into working for Petrovic as spotters, doing the same thing. Finding out the poor families and roping in their kids the same way they were roped in. Kenny would threaten their sisters' lives if they disagreed and most of them buckled, but the ones that didn't were killed and dumped from the boats carrying the girls, mid-transit."

"So where do you and your brother come in?" questioned an intrigued, yet horrified Tristin.

"My family... my brother and I... we were doing the same thing. N-not the same, something similar." Hitomi struggled over the shame in her words.

"You were trafficking in girls from Japan as well." summarised David, bluntly.

"No, we weren't... trafficking... we were transporting." she concurred, "We didn't coerce or extort them, we made it their choice-the ones that declined, suspicious of us as they were, we left them alone. The ones that accepted, we brought them in to work legitimate jobs as aliens. Cleaning women, nannies, factory workers, you get it. Petrovic, he was different; the older girls, he'd push into prostitution and dancing at his clubs. The younger ones and the less attractive, he'd sell off to sweat shops at half price-they weren't worth any reasonable investment to him."

"So," intruded Oscar again, "he was eating up your resources. So, you had to cut off his supply line."

Hitomi nodded, "Kaito had his hands on it-I was aware of everything, but other than that had no active part in it."

"Now's not the time to be claiming innocence." interjected a grave David.

"I'm not-I just didn't make any decisions about it." shame crept across her face and infected her voice, "I simply watched while it all happened. Kaito made sure that Petrovic's operation halted; he threatened and even killed some of his spotters and destroyed most of his transport systems-the trucks he'd take the girls to the docks in, even one of the tanker ships. He made it look like an industrial accident."

"And Kenny wasn't happy." deduced Tristin.

"He said he'd kill Kaito for interfering in his business." continued Hitomi. "My brother, the arrogant ass he is, made nothing off it, calling him a 'misplaced Cossack fuck', who didn't know where he was or what timeline he was in."

Oscar snickered and Tristin shot him a judgemental glare. "What?" he asked, shrugging, "That seems pretty fucking funny to me."

"The rest you can figure out." copped out Hitomi.

"Petrovic doesn't want to kill you." surmised David, "He wants you as leverage."

"Or bait." continued the troubled Hitomi, "So that way he can get Kaito to come to him and then just kill both of us. It'd work, though, once we're both dead, the clan would collapse on itself. No one else there is ready to lead yet."

"And what about the Italians?" Tristin shot an inquisitive glance to Hitomi, then to David who seemed ready to answer, "Are the Russians leaning on them to do the heavy lifting?"

"Roy explained that to me." said David, "The Gambettis got into the Russians' pockets after a deal involving some heroin fell through, about four years ago. A motorcycle gang and even a couple of nobodies got involved and the whole thing blew up. It was the Gambettis that tipped the Russians into it, but were stupid enough to invest in it as well.

"Heroin?" Oscar cringed at the thought, "I don't play with that shit. Too much mess follows, ese."

"You're right, the shit's cursed." David shook his head, "Roy's such a fucking idiot. Jon would be rolling in his grave right now; he would've never been so stupid as to even go near the stuff. Either way, Petrovic's leading man on the deal ended up dead-his jet was blown up mid-air with him in it-and the entire supply got destroyed while it sat in the middle of Hove Beach. Since then, he's been putting pressure on Roy." His eyes then traveled down to the visibly troubled Hitomi, "My guess is, he's pushing for the Gambettis to do the dirty work."

After the conversation and revelation, the entire room fell silent. The heavy breathing of a recovering, fast asleep Kaito in the bedroom could be heard over the still silence and heavy tension.

"So, what then-?" Oscar proceeded to ask, but his thought was stopped short by the chime of David's cell phone.

"Shit, Roth." he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and walking away from the group. Tristin waited a moment, contemplating what to do, before heading back to the sofa. Meanwhile, Oscar looked at Hitomi, who herself couldn't manage to look back at him.

"Sorry for bringing you all into this." she said remorsefully, "You three, Kaito and I owe you so much."

Oscar shrugged, "_De nada, querida._" He rested his hand on the chair, where David had done the same, "We're honestly a group of pretty shit people anyway, so it's not like we do something good too often."

"No, but really... thank you." a humble smile curved in her lips and Oscar returned with a smile of his own.

David returned and stood at the centre of the room, Oscar and Hitomi watched him expectantly, while Tristin booted her new laptop back up, resuming her efforts.

"All right," began David, his presence begging the attention of the room, "we've been losing sight of why we're here." his voice dropped into sullenness, "So we need to focus on the original plan."

Oscar tilted his head to one side, taken aback by what he had heard, "Wait, so we're just going to leave this where it is?" he gestured to the seated Hitomi with an open hand. "She just spilled 'er fuckin' guts about this shitstorm and we're not going to do anything else?"

David clenched his jaw and shook his head, "You said it yourself, Oscar. It's a shitstorm." he then slipped his phone into his pocket. "This is too much for us to handle right now. There's a reason we're here and we need to get it done."

"So we're going to fuckin' ignore this? For the next six months?" Oscar stomped towards David, "D'you hear that? Six fuckin' months we've got to sit in this hole and 'plan'," he added apt finger quotes, "and we can't a moment to help them?"

David closed his eyes, restricting his frustrations, "Oscar, do you want to take on the Bratva and the Mafia? Do you? For what? The sake of moral integrity?" he then looked the Mexican dead in the eyes, "Where the fuck d'you see morals in any of this? We help one criminal gang fend off two other criminal gangs and where the fuck will that put you Oscar? Right in with that one criminal gang, doing their criminal gang bullshit and bringing even more attention to yourself for no damn good reason! It's the same bullshit when it came to when we first saw her! You couldn't get a fucking hold of yourself!"

"They need our help David!" Bellowed Oscar.

"No Oscar, _you_ need a fuck!" Countered David, causing Oscar to step back. "D'you think I'm fucking stupid? You see a girl who needs your help, a damsel in dis-fucking-stress and I'm supposed to believe you're more interested than how hard she'll fuck you out of gratitude?"

Oscar looked around, grunting in fury, before turning back to David, "Well, you're so fucking satisfied with the stick jammed up your ass, you just wouldn't give a shit at all, would you?"

David's jaw locked almost shut as he pondered punching the hot-headed Mexican square in the mouth, but refrained from the tempting impulse. He simply looked over to Tristin, who gazed from behind the sofa, eyes widened and mouth ajar.

"Tristin, keep digging in IAA databases. We need to find out whatever we can about this... job of ours."

And without another word, he left the living room and through the front door, slamming it behind him. Silence had befallen, with the residual echoes of the testosterone fueled shouting match still reverberating throughout the house. Oscar lowered his head in his hand out of disgust, while Hitomi silently crept into the bedroom with the slumbering Kaito lay, to sit by his bedside. Oscar, lifting his face from his palm, looked at Tristin who was in the middle of replacing her headphones on her ears;

"I'm sorry, mami." Apologised Oscar.

Tristin cocked an eyebrow, "For what Oscar?"

"For this." He answered, turning about the room, gazing at the cieling and extending his arms, before looking back at her, "For all of this shit, for the three of us being forced up some asshole like stuffing, when it seems like we're gonna kill each other before we get anything done."

He then marched out of the room, muttering under his breath, "_Six fuckin' months._"

* * *

"I blame you for this bullshit, Tone." his baritone smoothly flowed with Hispanic inflection as he spoke into his cellphone while seated in the departure lounge of Francis International Airport.

"_Lou, must we go over this every time I slip up?_" Quizzed the voice on the other end of the line, grandiose flamboyance hemorrhaging.

"Well, there's a lot of fuckin' slipping." Luiz Lopez glanced at his Crowex timepiece, and sighed, "I wanted to get out'f the way of these fuckin' Russians after Bulgarin and yet, here I am, on my way to Vice City with a fuckin' nine-mil in by carry-on because some other Russian asshole decides he wants to roll over you."

"_True, it isn't ideal amigo._" Concurred 'Gay' Tony Prince. "_Usually when another man wants to roll over me it's after shots've already been fired._" A snide chuckle.

"Funny, T."

A muffled snort invaded Luis' ears, causing his eyes to widen.

"Tone, you'd better not be doin' lines. Shit, you can't even wait 'til I leave the state man?"

"_Me? What? No, I swear._" A cough, then a shorter, quick snort. "_Okay, maybe a little. I'm sorry, Poppy was feeling on edge and she needed someone to confide in._"

"Confide in doesn't mean sharing a rail with, Tony." Luis shook his head as he listened over the intercom for the mention of his flight. "Look, I gotta go-I'm prayin' I don't get caught with this gun in my bag, otherwise, I'ma have to shoot my way out of the airport with it."

"_Alriiight. Enjoy Vice City, say hi to Kenny Rose for me. The old, Jewish bastard doesn't even call anymore. Sheesh, you spend a weekend snorting coke with someone and afterwards it's like they don't even exist to you. It's not like I made a pass at him... too often-_"

_Click._


	10. Where Do We Begin?

**WRITER'S NOTE / I understand that there must be some kind of confusion as where "Vinewood Beach" is in Vice City-what I've done, much like GTA IV and V is remap Vice City into a new environment. For your benefit, you can imagine it shaped much the same as previous iterations of Vice City, but reworked to be larger, some of the streets, avenues and locales to be renamed and with a more divisive urban/paradise polarity about it (I found that all of Vice City in the original game just kind of blended together. I'm using the modern iteration of Los Santos as a working example. You can imagine Vinewood Beach to be in the area of Washington Beach and of course, named and modeled after Hollywood, Florida. Thanks and enjoy.**

* * *

The evening streets of Vinewood Beach, Vice City wound down from a hectic urban bustle to an unsettling evening calm. The blocks of houses, cafes and mom-and-pop groceries, graffiti'd and aged; the cracked asphalt and oil and blood-stained pavements; the attentive nod of one of a cluster of Hispanic youth in David's direction as he stomped down said pavement, in his Hinterland boots, jeans and leather jacket, his hands tucked into its pockets as the evening chill wasn't uncalled for in the cool December twilight, even in Vice City.

He rounded a corner and popped through the front door of a small Cuban cafe, the door chiming with a little string-tied bell at the top; the aroma of cigars, espresso and fried food invaded his nostrils and gave him an odd sense of rustic comfort. He took a seat on one of the stools at the counter and looked around, peering over and behind, no one to be seen.

"Buenas tardes." He greeted in Spanish. His call was answered by the emergence of a squat, elderly, Cuban gentleman, toweling his hands and tying a yellowing apron around his waist.

"Buenas tardes, senor. Lo siento," The barista apologised "How can I help?"

"_Un cafe solo_-strongest blend you've got." Ordered David and the senior barista gave an affirmative nod.

"Tell me," Said the barista, as he unrolled the mouth of an opened bag of beans, pouring them into the grinder. "where're you from? I don't think I've ever seen you around the neighbourhood." His Cuban accent was thick, layered under a gruff growl of a voice. He tamped the finely ground beans into the basket and placed it in the machine, running it and pouring a rich, dark brew into a small, ceramic mug.

"I come and go." Answered David, looking about the empty cafe.

"Really? I've been in this same Cafe for over thirty years'nd don't think I've ever seen you 'round." He set the steaming espresso in front of David, who offered a grateful nod, placing a crisp five dollar note on the table.

"I keep to myself pretty well." David took a sip of the strong, steaming brew and winced at the hefty, yet invigorating, bitter flavour.

The barista leaned over the counter, pushing the five dollar bill back to David and shaking his hand, "On the house, amigo."

David cocked an eyebrow and set the espresso down, while the aged barista chuckled, stroking his greyed handlebar moustache. "Calm down, amigo. I like the look'f you. You remind me of a guy I knew a long time ago. Cabron was cold as ice, but was a real man; he had real _cojones_, real fuckin' integrity."

David picked back up the mug and held it to his lips, closing his eyes from the billowing steam.

"Umberto." The barista held out his hand.

David, delaying a response, stared at the open hand before grasping it and giving a firm shake, "David."

Umberto gave an accepting nod. "David, I like that." He approved, "A real man's name. Here, cabron, let me get you another." he suggested, as David polished off the rest of the espresso.

"It's fine." David waved dismissively.

"Ey, I insist." He said as he tamped another batch of beans. However, he was interrupted by the shout of voices from outside of the cafe. An energised mixture of Spanish and Creole, Umberto's eyes widened as he dropped the portafilter and ran from behind the counter and out into the street. David merely craned his neck and turned his gaze to outside, where a small gathering of Afro-Caribbean men circled around a Hispanic man. Umberto scurried out to the group and barking at the top of his lungs, demanded that the aggressors back away.

"Ey! Ey! Get the fuck away from him!" He bellowed as he squeezed in between the standing group and it appeared as if they would indeed comply, but as he reached for the downed young man, one of the group pushed him to the pavement so that Umberto tumbled right on top of him.

At that, David got up from his seat and methodically strode towards the open door of the cafe onto the evening Vinewood Beach streets and stepping outside, made a headcount, mapping the position of each man.

"Eh? You got a problem, man?" Hissed one of the group with an understated Haitian accent that David could identify.

"No." David shook his head, "Not unless you let these two get up and move along."

His brash statement captured the angry glares of the rest of the group, who turned toward him and separated from the downed Umberto and the other young Hispanic man, presumably also Cuban.

"What did you say?" Questioned another of the group of Haitians, "Who the fuck you think you are?"

David edged closer, which caused the group of Haitians to put themselves on guard, especially as some noticed his .45 which stood in its hip holster beneath his leather jacket. He stopped as he stood a mere yard away from the men and raised his hands pacifistically; "I'm someone that doesn't any shit to happen, either to you or to them."

"Shit? I'll show you some shit." Growled the one at the front of the pack as he lunged in, swinging a wild punch. David reflexively brought his elbows up to his face and guarded it, then ducking under the extended arm, delivered a low elbow to the chest, knocking the wind out of the attacker. David glided under and around, grabbing him by the face and pulling his head back before driving a kick to the thigh, dropping him to his knees and slamming his head forward onto the concrete.

The rest of the group looked stunned, but their shock was short-lived, as almost all of the remainder of them dove in to rip David apart. David danced around them, weaving through, in and out the bunch of four or five Haitians. A blur of fluid, rolling elbows and low kicks and the group tumbled down. It came down to one more who stood before David, shuddering as he watched his groaning comrades roll and whimper on the asphalt-in a fit of desperation he darted forward with a fist, but David tucked his body and delivered a shoulder thrust to the solarplexus, before twisting his body with an upward rear elbow to the face; his opponent stumbled back and lifted a feral kick, but David brought in his elbow and knee, guarding, before sliding forward and taking out the supporting leg with a low shoulder thrust, hyperextending and buckling the attacker's knee as he dropped like the rest, wailing and clutching his knee.

David gathered himself as he noticed one more of the Haitian, who had the wisdom to stand off, but felt like he had the upper hand as from his waistband drew an UZI which he aimed at David with a shaky hand as his spindly arms looked barely strong enough to hold it.

"You and I both know," Began a reasoning David, "that pulling that trigger is the stupidest thing you could do right now."

The jittery Haitian youth could barely structure a sentence, hardly letting out "F-f-fuck y-" before David quick drew his .45 and fired. The bullet went through the youth's shoulder and he screamed girlishly, dropping the UZI which misfired a stray shot as it hit the ground, at just the same time he did.

What was left of the group tried to gather themselves and the other fallen as they encircled David, before quickly scattering. All the while, Umberto and the nameless Cuban youth had managed to find shelter in the cafe-they watched on, stunned at what they witnessed.

* * *

"Roberto, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Umberto handed an ice pack to the bruised and beaten Roberto, who rested it against his face, groaning.

"Sorry, papi. It's just, those Haitian putos, they were talkin' shit about you, about abuelo."

"That's no reason to get yourself killed!" Berated Umberto, before slapping Roberto on the back of his head, causing him to flinch and almost drop the ice pack. His demeanor flipped and he faced Roberto, grabbing onto his shoulders and staring him in the face; "You're my only, Roberto. Mi hijo. I don't want you gettin' shot up in this turf war bullshit. Your grandfather and I got out of that shit a long time ago, for a reason."

Roberto hung his head, "Sorry, papi."

David stood outside the cafe, leaning against the wall and his arms crossed in front of his chest as he stared at the sun as dipped beneath the horizon, the coast a stone's throw away. He grabbed his jacket which was draped over a chair at one of the outdoor tables and made his way onto the street. Umberto jogged behind him, calling out to him-

"Hey! David! David!"

David turned, his jacket slung over his shoulder.

"I just wanted to say, amigo... thank you. You saved my son... you saved me."

David shook his head, "No problem." and quickly turned about.

"W-wait, wait! Listen; if you ever need something, stop by, I'm always here... or... look, here-" Umberto handed David a napkin which had his number jotted down onto it. "-give me a call."

"Thanks."

And as the cascading orange glow faded into night, began the trek back to the safehouse.

* * *

"Any luck?"

David peered over Tristin's head as she tapped away at her computer, lines upon lines of incomprehensible code flowing down the screen as she added, removed, tried and retried.

"I'm not sure." She said, "It's been a lot of guess work for the most part."

David grunted and checked the kitchen, where Oscar was working on a bottle of Logger Lite, while staring out of the window above the sink; then the bedroom, which was then empty.

"When did they leave?" He asked.

"About an hour after you did. Kaito woke up and they called a car, it came by and picked them up in about ten minutes." Explained Tristin.

"They're not safe, out in the open like that."

"D'you actually care?"

"I do." He paused, "I just didn't think it was our fight. I'm not heartless, I'm rational."

"No one's really rational, ese." Oscar had managed to silently drift over from the kitchen and took a seat on the back of the sofa, "So long as you're a human, so long as you feel, you're emotional."

David shrugged and Tristin continued.

"Erm... wait." She went quiet. "Oh... no! Fuck! Shit-shit-shit-shit..."

"What's wrong?" David snapped forward and gazed at the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"One of their last firewalls, I couldn't avoid its counter-measure. It's tracing me." At a point where just anyone would be panicking, she calmed herself and kept her cool, typing away as she sought to fight back, David and Oscar leaned further in, trying to make sense of what they saw until finally, Tristin let out a laugh and threw her hands in the air.

"Suck it, Fort Baxter. You've never seen a bitch like me."

"Good job." Oscar nodded affirmatively.

"How much longer until we're in?" Asked David

"Right about... _now._"

The page of code became a make-shift user interface, probably replicating that of the Fort Baxter database as best as it could. It comprised of one page, on which there was a massive grid of folders and subfolders, each of them labeled with jargon that Oscar and Tristin were oblivious to.

"Where the hell do I start?" She asked, while David examined the screen.

"Let me see." He leaned in and nudged her hands aside with his own, he began typing and clicking away, the interface proving much more familiar to him that Tristin's screen of cascading code. A few clicks and he stopped, scrolling down the page of information.

"This looks like something..." He mentioned.

"... Icepick." Uttered Tristin as she gazed at the screen.

"Perdon?" Asked Oscar.

"Project Icepick." Reinforced David, "This might be what we're looking for."

"Really?" Quizzed Oscar again, "Because that sounds pretty fuckin' estupido hermano. Like a cartoon."

"These operations get their names for a reason." Explained David, "Icepick means something."

"All right, well... what does it say?"

"Nothing." Said Tristin.

"Eh, what? Say that again mami."

"There's nothing there." Added David again. "Nothing helpful anyway."

"So..." Oscar was puzzled, "... what does that mean?"

"It means," Replied David, "that this is some very serious shit we're getting into. They keep information very need to know-probably a few hard copies-they keep the soft file minimal, almost empty."

"They want to make sure that anyone who isn't supposed to see this, doesn't." Whispered Tristin to herself, but still loudly enough for the others to hear.

David leaned back and straightened up, while Oscar eyed him, downing the rest of his beer, and as he scratched at his stubble, he pressed the question: "_The fuck are we in the middle of?_"


	11. A Day in the Life

"_Got something for me Dave?_"

"Can't say I do, Roth."

"_What's wrong? I thought she would've got in by now._"

"I did." Intruded Tristin.

"_And?_"

"They're keeping it clean." Resumed David. "Prying eyes are a concern it seems-more than ever."

"_All right._" Roth paused on his end of the conference call-David, Oscar and Tristin encircled the Drone smartphone which sat in the centre of the dining room table, all of them eyeing the blank screen as if they could see Roth's face in it. "_Well, that's Fort Baxter-they're just mules anyway. What about the I.A.A.? They're the ones running the operation..._"

"I've already started on 'em." Proceeded Tristin again, "It'll take me a longer than Fort Baxter did though."

"_M'hm._" Gave Roth with a grunt, "_They've had a real hard-on for cyber-terrorism these past few years, so their system is almost bulletproof._"

"Almost." She assured. "I should be in by tonight, barring any fuck ups."

David peered out the kitchen window, as ten-in the morning daylight peeked through the slatted blinds.

"_Okay then... well-_"

"Roth; does the name **Icepick** mean anything to you?" Asked David, cutting off his superior. His question was followed by an uncomfortable pause and the low-pitched hum of feedback from the other end of the line.

"_Can't say it does._" Answered Roth, breaking the silence. "_Why?_"

"That's what they're calling it, it seems. Icepick. Sounds unconventional."

"_From what I know, it is unconventional. Keep me updated._"

"Hooyah."

And with a muffled shuffling and a click, the call ended. That left the three of them, surrounding the dining room table in silence. Oscar looked at David, who looked at Tristin, who looked back at David, then at Oscar.

"So," She began, "now what?"

"Now, we keep digging." He made a steady stride towards the stairs, which took him to the upper floor of the small house. "I'm going to take a shower, then I'm going to Fort Baxter-I'll be doing some reconnaissance."

Meanwhile, Oscar grabbed his jacket and headed for the front door, "Claro, ese. I'll be going for a walk... this is a lot to process." and he shut it behind him stepping onto the mid-morning streets.

Tristin looked around the then empty room for a brief moment, before throwing her arms up with a simultaneous shrug. She returned to her spot on the sofa, her slender body stretching the length of it, and her warm laptop placed upon her bare thighs, the legs of her shorts cut just past her butt. She slipped on her headphones, clicked play on her media player and let the melodic industrial backtrack caress her, as she cracked her knuckles and began tapping away at the computer with manicured fingers.

The busy typing away melted into uncanny reflex as she began to lose herself in the music-anxiety and tension dissipated as the bass shuddered her spine, electronic melody carrying her on a wave. It was like a high, as she disappeared into the trance of it all.

* * *

Oscar trekked along the streets of Vice City as the morning sun shone bright and beat down onto the cracked pavement and asphalt. Palm trees swayed in the strong December winds and even though he felt a little chill run through his body, the balmy tropic atmosphere kept him comfortable.

A familiar shudder against his leg, Oscar reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone, an unfamliar number flashing on the LED screen. He felt a brief surge of hesitant fear to answer the call, but swiped his thumb across the bottom nonetheless.

"Hola."

"Oscar?"

"Yeah-wait. Hitomi?"

"Yeah. Hi. How are you?"

"Erm... surprised." Oscar glanced around the street, nothing to see but blocks lined with clusters of young, Latino gang members, their attention gradually drifting to him as his steps slowed to a halt on the streets of Vinewood Beach. "Are you okay? How's your brother-h-how's Kaito?"

"Recovering." She paused for a moment as an indistinct murmur in what Oscar could only assume was Japanese buzzed in the background. As it finished, she resumed, "Yeah... he's doing better. Look, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for any trouble we caused. You and your friend, Da-"

"We're not friends." Oscar cut her off, "Just... temporary acquaintances. I get a lot of 'em."

"Business, I know how it goes." Her tone of voice shifted upwarts, slightly, "Hey, look though. Kaito and I, we're grateful; you... and David and Tristin, you helped us and you saved him."

"Hey, mami," Oscar smiled, "I'd be lying if I said it was nothing. You two brought a lot'f shit down on us-"

She laughed.

"-but I'm glad we could help."

"I'm glad you did. L-look, Kai and I will be staying in Vice City for a couple of days before we head back North; we've got a club in South Vice, you're free to join us. All of you are. I... we... we'll be there tonight."

Oscar paused as one of the group of thugs nodded towards him before they filed in his direction. "That... that sounds good Tomi. L-look, I'll see you tonight, gotta go, cool?"

"Alright. Be sure to bring Tristin along... she looks like she'd enjoy a good party."

"Si. Adios." And with a sweep of the arm, the phone vanished back into his pocket as he stared at the group crossing the street to him. He remembered his automatic pistol tucked in his waistband at his back, hidden by his untucked plaid shirt-scratching at his stubble, he counted the group, six of them and wondered if they were armed as well. Checking for any bulges or bunches beneath their wifebeaters or double-X tee shirts, or perhaps in the legs of their cargos and jeans, his observation was inconclusive as they stopped a foot from him.

"Oye, muchacho! Que onda?" Asked the thug at the front of the pack.

"Nada hermano." Oscar angled his hips to his left, yet kept looking straight ahead. "Mira, no quiero una problema."

"Que problema?" the leader chuckled and nudged the goon to his left, "Simplemente pensamos que estaba perdido."

"No, I'm all right ese." Oscar edged, away, but the beckoning of the leader stopped him.

"Ey, ey. Mejicano?" He asked.

"Si." Oscar obliged. The group shared a nod of approval.

"Ey, sorry ese." Said the leader, "Sometimes we get some Cubanos rollin' up on our territory. They forget that this neighbourhood _es Mejicano._"

Oscar gave an obligatory nod. Despite being proud of his heritage, he had long ago given up on warring with other Hispanic nationalities in the pursuit of vain hubris. He was a Mexican, but he had a mutual respect for Hispanic men of any walk, Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Dominican, whatever. The struggle was all the same and it took rag-tag snots like the group of twenty-somethings who stood in front of him, sporting their gang and national tattoos like a declaration of pride to remind him that because of people like them, the struggle only ended up being harder than it had to-they were opressing themselves and everyone else who spoke Spanish that tried to make a life in the States. Because of that, the pack of thugs and their very presence was making him sick to his stomach.

"Tell me... you guys Vagos?" He asked, his thoughts reeling back to the gang he left on the West Coast.

"Eh, un poco." Gestured the leader. "Some Vagos moved down to the East Coast and set up shop here, grew into somethin' bigger and stronger." He threw his arms out and shouted as hard as he could muster, "Estamos Cholos! Los hijos de Vagos!"

And at that beckon, the entire block of gang clusters broke into a unified cry of indentification; they shouted and shrieked in Spanish, while throwing up their gang sign: thumb held straight out, pinkie to middle fingers extended upwards and the index curled into a crude hook-it looked something like a broken letter C, or if you turned your hand sideways, like an eagle in flight.

Oscar nodded, as the leader asked him, "What's your name man?"

Much like the phone call, Oscar was hesitant, but again shrugged off his concerns, "Oscar. Guzman."

The leader's eyes widened, "Guzman? Ey, you know Raul Guzman?"

Oscar nodded again as his jaw tightened, "Yeah. My brother." Raul was Oscar's brother and fellow gun runner. The two ran their business together and ran it well, but he felt a brief stab in his gut as the possibility of Raul moonlighting struck him with mistrust-he had never heard of Raul working with the Cholos before that moment.

The leader gave an approving nod, nudging the guy to his left again, who gave a dopey chuckle, "Raul's good people, man. Treats us good."

The conversation drifted into nods and grins of approval at the groups self-seemed new friend in Oscar, who was by no means impressed, but the welcoming atmosphere was shaken, as a rumbling engine crept into everyone's ears along with the humming of tyres slowly rolling over asphalt, an unnerving hush falling over the street.

"Haitians!" Shouted one from a group across the street and the group in front of Oscar spun around as a rust-coloured Voodoo rolled up to the middle of the street and machine gun fire exploded from the windows on both sides. Everyone that was aware jumped for whatever cover was nearby as time seemed to slow down, Oscar jumped and tucked, drawing his pistol from his waistband mid-leap and taking aim at the lowrider, pulling back at the trigger. Seconds became minutes as the gunfire seemed infinite, palm trees, lightposts, corner store walls and windows being riddled with lead at a breakneck pace, but Oscar's retaliation wasn't unnoticed. His bullet's pierced the steel of the Voodoo's doors as well as it's tyres and it was a shriek that came from the car that brought the Haitians gunfire to a stop and the car peeling down the street, skidding at top speed with a flat tyre.

The crackling of bullets in the air turned to silence as the setting became haunting. Heads slowly rose from the ground as everyone checked if everyone else was okay. Oscar looked around and engaged the safety of his pistol, slipping it back into his pants and examined the carnage. For the most part, everyone was okay, there were no noticeable casualties minus one poor bastard on the opposite side of the street who took a round to the thigh. His gangmates were trying to hoist him up by his arms, but his cries of agony led them to rest and leave him on the sidewalk.

Oscar wanted to sprint across the street and carry the kid-who couldn't have been more than eighteen-to the hospital himself. He watched as the others contemplated what to do, the last thing on their mind to take him to emergency services. Oscar wondered if David would be up for another impromtu surgery, but quickly shook that from his mind. The thought of dropping a bullet-wounded kid in the Emergency Room, and the questions it would lead to, was unsavoury, but he had to, for the kid's sake. For the sake of his conscious.

He darted across the street and the group around the kid spread out, as Oscar screamed for directions to the nearest hospital.

* * *

Luis Lopez strutted through the doors of Escobar International Airport, a travel bag slung over his shoulder and his cell phone held to his ear.

"Hello?"

"_Did you arrive well?_" Asked the voice on the other end of the line, a male with a deep, rasping voice shrouded in an Eastern European accent.

"Yeah, I got in okay." Replied Luis, looking around, unsure as to where to go and staring at the car key that a seemingly random customs officer had slipped in with his passport and travel documents.

"_Good. Head to the car park, there's a vehicle waiting for you-license plates SF4686-in the trunk, you'll find something of good use to you._"

Click.

As promised, in the middle of the packed car park there sat a silver Benefactor Schafter, one that reminded him of Tony's and made him long for the next flight back to Liberty City-checking the trunk, there lay an unmistakable black rifle case, one which he didn't bother to open until he needed it and he slam the trunk shut. Unlocking the door keylessly and starting the engine up, a delicious growl as it revved high once he turned it over, Luis nodded his head and adjusted the radio station to what once was _Wildstyle_, _FLO FM_.

With the soulful beats of Childish Gambino's _Fire Fly_ permeating the air through the open windows he pulled out of the parking lot and cruised the streets of of Vice City.

* * *

_David._

...

_David._

What?

_Where are you?_

W-where am I? I don't know. Where are you?

_I'm here. I'm waiting for you._

Waiting? I-I don't even know you.

The sea of colours danced before his perception, warping it into an indistinguishable haze of sight, sound and smell. He felt nauseated as his weight dropped as if he fell to his knees, but they grazed against nothing. He floated there, the tingling turning to burning, the ambient hum turning to a piercing scream and the light burned his eyes. They lit up like licking flames, but he couldn't scream at the agony of it all.

Sea spray of red shot up and his chest tightened with every rush of it. His head pounded, his heart pounded, his eyes burned, he wanted it to stop.

"Argh!"

He shot up to a seated position, beads of hot and cold sweat rolling down his neck and onto his back, his pillow damp. He clutched his temples, running his palm over his hairline and sighed. The dreams were persistent-on and off for as long as he could remember. A good night's sleep was a welcomed rarity.

Pushing the bedroom door open with a steady creak, he was met by the pounding bass of industrial electronica that blared throughout the house, while his head still throbbed. Yet, he fought as hard as he could to bare the weakness of his condition.

"Shit, did I wake you?"

Tristin peered over the rail of the stairs as she had stepped down from the top floor of the house, wearing nothing but a black bra and flourescent yellow underwear.

"No, it's fine." David waved a dismissive hand, before looking at her again, eyes travelling up the sea of ravens, in flight, tattooed on her upper thigh and stopped at her up, the flow broken by the waistband of her underwear. "You're going to put on something, right?"

She smiled, "Do I make you uncomfortable, David?" before disappearing back up the stairs without waiting for an answer.

"Oye, D.," Oscar greeted him from the kitchen, sipping on a beer, dressed down in a pair of black slacks, a vibrant red dress shirt adorned with glistening silver embellishment and a pair of canvas sneakers, "T. and I are going out tonight, I didn't think you'd be interested, but d'you-"

"No, I'm all right." David cut him, off. "Besides, I've got work to do."

"We all do, hermano," A sip of his beer, "but it's been one fuckin' hell of a few days already. I think we need to unwind."

"D'you think he unwinds Oz?" Tristin returned, pulling a slinky electric blue cocktail dress down her thighs as it hugged her svelte figure, "I think D. just winds up tighter and tighter..."

David waved another hand at her and headed back to the bedroom, the cold tile floors stinging his bare feet.

"_You two have fun._"


	12. A Night On The Town

**Writer's Note:** _Sorry about the delay, all. It was Christmas season, not to mention my Wi-Fi was very unreliable for the past week. No excuses though, here's the next chapter and for the remainder of the story, I'm hoping to update on a bi-weekly basis... weekly in worst-case scenarios. Please, feel free to review, critique is always welcome and criticism will be taken without offence. Any advice can be good advice._

_Enjoy,_

_Z._

* * *

David, peering through his binoculars, across the plains which surrounded Fort Baxter Air Base, examined as far as he could-he scoped the watch towers from West side of the base, spotlights oscillating in any effort to catch intrusion. However, he remained out of sight, leaning against a blacked-out Declasse Vigero, dressed in black and navy blue and out of the way of any discernable light, in the middle of a moonless night.

He contemplated a plan of attack-despite the security of months of preparation, he knew that circumstances could shift on a whim and as such, he, Tristin and Oscar needed to act fast. As this thought crossed his mind, he remembered where Tristin and Oscar would be and shook his head.

The burning neon of Vice Beach dizzyingly beside the pounding beats of the glistening nightlofe set the scene, as Oscar, Tristin and the Yakuza kin, Hitomi and Kaito Marufuji were holed up in the VIP Lounge of the new generation's night spot: BLAQ. The lounge, ascended in the rafters of the warehouse-turned-nightclub, stood above the hazy violet and magenta confusion that unfurled on the dancefloor. That didn't keep it from being a night in Vice all on it's own, though.

Pure white lines like glistening sugar were arranged, meticulously on the onyx and granite table in the middle of the irregular, looped seats, as Kaito took to it through an ornate glass tube, etched with markings in kanji. He shook his head and coughed, the dust settling in his brain and his eyes widening along with a smile.

Hitomi was next as she bowed her head over the table and with a tight wheeze, inhaled the magic. She laughed as she handed the tube to Tristin, who shook her hand at it, a glass of Bordeaux in her hand as she took a seat beside the floating Hitomi. Tristin, however, despite taking in the electro synth-beats with enthusiasm, was otherwise distant from the entire scene-she brushed her hair over her right shoulder, and kept her eyes on the dancefloor below, where the bodies of the drunk, high, amourous and reckless tumbled among each other with little rhythm, but in raucous motion. She pursed her lips as she lifted her wine to them and contemplated the night in front of her computer screen.

"Hey. You okay mi corazon?"

Tristin peered to her left where Oscar stood, a fresh glass of brandy in one hand, a used glass of rum and cola in the other and a concerned smile upon his young face.

"Yeah Ozzy, I'm good." She gave a warm, feigned grin.

He flashed her a wink before slipping past her and between the brother and sister duo, handing the brandy to Kaito who gave him a nod as he plopped down next to a gleeful Hitomi.

Tristin remained stuck in her own mind, watching the dancers on the floor like drunken insects or crabs on the sand. Shakily darting from side to side as much as their compromised balance would let them, some falling over themselves and others in intoxicant-induced stupors and others catching snaps of them with their latest model iFruit phones.

However, one stumbler in particular caught her gaze. Unlike the others, he seemed to move with a purpose, in a direction, cutting through the dancefloor in a hurried panic. Tracing the path he followed, she spotted a duo of built, suited men trailing, equal determination on their chiseled faces. Theirs was one of action, however, his was one of fear.

"No. Not here." She thought to herself.

"T., you okay baby?" Quizzed Hitomi, who nudged her playfully, but Tristin heard none of it. She rested her glass on the table without looking, breaking one of the neat lines of Charlie and in her high heels, ran to the stairs which took her to the dancefloor.

"T! Tris!" Called Oscar, while Hitomi's smile faded into hazy concern.

"She cool?" Asked a clueless Kaito.

Tristin buried herself in the crowd of clubgoers, the floor slippery with what could've been a mixture of spilled liquour, body oil and vomit, but she didn't lose a single step, scanning for the first figure she had seen.

"Come on Ari. Where are you?" She asked herself. Spinning around, however, she then turned and marched right into the muscled chest of a man who stood at a minimum of six-two and looked like a hefty two-fifty. She stepped back, pressing against his black t-shirt beneath his grey jacket with her hands and looked up, recognising one of the goons that was pursuing the runner.

She gritted her teeth, "Where?"

He squinted and smirked, baring crooked teeth that changed colour in the strobing lights. "Where ever you like, babe."

Her brow furrowed, "No. Where is he?"

He cocked an eyebrow and his smile vanished, "The fuck're you-?"

"Paz!" Shouted a voice from the crowd and Tristin spun around, spotting the runner who eyed her in stupoured disbelief.

"Ari!" She cried out, her voice barely audible among the booming bass, but her eyes widened as the second heavy crept up behind Ari, "Behind!"

Ari spun and the goon grabbed him by the shoulders, while the other grabbed onto Tristin's arm with a vice-like grip. In retaliation she stomped down, driving the heel of her right shoe right through the toe of his left loafter, impaling his foot with it. He yelped and she followed up with a back elbow to the solar plexus and spun around, delivering a stiff headbutt to the bridge of his nose. He stumbled, while the second began pounding on the smaller Ari, who struggled. He managed to dodge one of the incoming hamfists to his face and grabbed onto his arm and dug into it with his teeth. A cry like the first one, the heavy tried shaking Ari off, delivering gut shots with his free arm.

Tristin leapt into the fray between the two and wrapped her arms around the heavy's throat, spinning around and behind him. In his struggle to break free, she felt him lift her off of her feet, while he simultaneously tried to shake off Ari, latched onto his forearm like a pitbull. For added measure, Tristin took her manicured nailes and, from behind, furiously gouged into his eyes. Blinded, mauled and enraged, the heavy delivered a concussive blow to Ari's jaw that knocked him sideways and both arms free-albeit, one missing a bloody chunk-grabbed Tristin from his shoulders and tossed her onto the floor. No one in the crowd of the drunk, stoned and raving knew that the chaos mere footsteps away was more than an excited, partying threesome. Rubbing the blood and nail polish from his eyes, he lumbered over to the two, malice footsteps and the way he clenched his fists. He reached out with a bleeding hand to Tristin...

CRASH!

Glass shattered and splintered as what once was a whiskey bottle came crashing down and onto the back of his skull. He dropped to the floor, bleeding from the open gash in his head and Oscar towered behind him, broken bottle in hand as Tristin could only watch him for a moment in silent grattitude before scrambling over to the downed Ari, who watch her with glazed eyes.

"Paz." He coughed, flightily.

"Hey, Ari." She answered.

"Paz?" Oscar cocked a puzzled eyebrow.

* * *

"What happened?" David held his phone to his ear with one hand, and clutched one scope of the binoculars against his face with the other.

"Shit happened, D." Tristin, from the other end of the call, was seated in the back seat of Kaito's Felon with an unconscious 'Ari', who's unkempt, greasy mane Tristin stroked with the back of her hand, tenderly.

"Where's Oz?" The rustle of heavy boots treading through wet grass, steadily, carefully.

"He and I split up. Kaito's driving me to the safehouse and Oscar took off with Tomi."

"Really?"

"I know what you're thinking." A girlish smirk, as she flicked her hair back, hand-free, "Cut the guy some slack."

"As long as he gets it out of his system." A blunt thud intrudes his dialogue.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Reconnaisance."

Her smile stretched, "Please, don't make a mess before we get there."

"Necessary casualty-it's fine, no one will know." The cry of scraping metal, followed by a sick, dull _shunk_.

"Oh God." She cringed. "You're not cut-?"

"Got to go, need both hands-keep me updated and check on Oz. The three of us might need to do some active survaillance."

And a hasty click as David ended the call from his end of the line and Tristin pulled the phone away from her face, cringing at the notion of what could be happening on the grounds of Fort Baxter as she gazed unresponsive Ari who sat on the opposite end of the back seat, the passing streetlights strobing against his face and highlighting his tired, black-ringed eyes. Tristin gazed at him in loving silence, before eyeing Kaito in the driver's seat, his eyes rigidly fixed on the road-

"Sorry." With fine fingers, she pushed her styled locks behind her right ear-her undercut leaving the left side of her head buzz-cut low: rebellious, unconventional, juxtaposed to her vibrant, electric blue dress which she wore so well.

"About what?" Kaito angled his gaze back, ever so slightly, still allowing himself to focus on the road.

"For ending the night in such a rush, for having you chauffeur me home." Her cheeks burned with mild embarrasment.

"It's okay." She noticed a subtle smile crease his cheek. "Shit happens."

She leaned against the fogged window, as she stared at outside in it's neon-hazed, dirty glory while heaving a deep sigh, "That's exactly what I said."

Her phone buzzed, preceeding the polyphonic chime of Kavinsky's _1986._

"D?"

"Change of plans." The gutteral, understated rumble of an engine in the background as otherwise, David's voice rang clear and undisturbed, "Too much traffic going to the safehouse in the past couple of days."

"So... what?"

"So, you're going to tell me what's happening, and I decide on where we go."

She hesitated. "It's serious."

"How serious?"

"Really serious."

"Stop bullshitting me, Tristin. Or is it Paz? Oscar didn't seem too sure either."

She cursed between gritted teeth, "Fuck me. He seriously couldn't keep his mouth shut?"

"He tried. He's easy to read, over the phone."

Tristin let her gaze linger to Ari again, who shuddered in his sleep, his eyelids barely fluttering. She contemplated lying through her teeth, but the consequences of witholding information from David Barrett recalled the events involving Beppe and the staple gun.

"I have a guy with-"

"Who is he?"

"David..."

"Tristin." His voice softened as the mention of her name brought a chill down her spine.

"He's my brother. Armando Villanueva. He's in trouble... a lot of trouble."

"Villanueva."

She sighed again as her eyes itched, "Long story."

"All right. I'm going to text you an address, tell Kaito to drop you there. I'll meet you and take you and your brother somewhere safe."

"Where?"

"To my house."

_Click._


End file.
